


Purgatory's Angel

by Ltleflrt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Bottoming from the Top, Cheerfully Optimistic Dean, Dcbb 2017, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Grumpy Castiel, Injury Recovery, M/M, Physical Therapist Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Surgeon Sam, Top Dean Winchester, Wing Kink, alternate universe - non canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt
Summary: In an act of heroism Castiel sacrifices one of his wings to save lives. But he isn’t sure he wants to live tethered to the ground, never to dance in the sky again.  Two stubborn Winchester brothers have faith that his future isn’t quite so grim, and that flight may be possible someday.  Castiel thinks they’re full of shit, but in the face of Dean’s cheerful optimism it’s hard not to believe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay it's finally DCBB Season! Better than Christmas, right?
> 
> Special thanks to the mods, Muse and Jojo, you're AWESOME and I super appreciate you both. Thank you to JupiterJames for keeping me motivated to work on this story during the summer. And of course a BIG THANK YOU to Moonlite Knight for picking my story! Their art masterpost is linked as a related work at the bottom :)

The doctor's lounge is empty and quiet except for the buzz of florescent lights, which do nothing to make the room look even the least bit welcoming.  The beaten up couch in the corner with the shitty little tv is comfortable, and Sam fully intends to take advantage of that as soon as he gets some food in his stomach.  Unfortunately he forgot to bring something from home, and it's the middle of the night so the cafeteria is closed, and there isn't much in the vending machine that looks appealing.

He settles on a ham and cheese sandwich, hoping it's not too soggy to be edible.  Unfortunately it _is_ soggy, but he's hungry enough to ignore it for the first few bites.  He's eyeing the second half, wondering if it's worth finishing, when his pager's shrill beeping rescues him from making the decision.  The message has him up and moving so fast that the half eaten sandwich doesn't even get thrown away.

He doesn't quite run through the halls.  His size makes him look intimidating to many, and there are patients and employees both who might see him as a threat before they register his scrubs and white coat.  In a place like Saint Eve's hospital there are enough things for people to be afraid of, and he doesn't want to add to that list.  But even though it's difficult to keep a somewhat even pace, his long legs still get him to where he needs to be in quick order.

"Dr. Winchester!  Over here!"

Sam's head whips toward the curtained alcove where nurse Ava is frantically beckoning him closer.  He's there in three strides, pushing the curtain back and taking in the scene briefly.  Dr. Masters is already at the patient's side, working with nurses to stabilize them.  He stays back, out of the way, but he was summoned for a reason, and he needs information.

Luckily Ava is there to provide it.  "Broken wing from gunfire.  Three bullets went through and through, five are still embedded."

There are two gurneys, one to hold the patient's body, and another to hold the mangled mass of his wing.  Sam's been a surgeon for going on eight years, and he's worked on bodies broken apart by everything from car accidents to werewolf attacks, but the sight of delicate bones sticking out of torn muscles and blood-matted feathers makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers.

"Language, Winchester."  Meg doesn't look up from what she's doing despite how the name of Christ might affect most demons.  And it’s unsurprising that she’s unfazed by a little cursing since she’s in the presence of an angel, and still completely focused on her job.  "We've got him stabilized, but you better go scrub up because he needs surgery asap.   We're just waiting for the surgical suite to be prepped."  

He has performed surgery on angel wings before, but never with so much damage.  He's the only doctor on staff with any experience since angels usually tend to their own.  He doesn't waste time wondering why they're not descending on the hospital to retrieve their brother.  It's none of his business, and he's got a job to do.  "I'm on it," he says before turning on his heel and rushing to get prepped.

By the time he's scrubbed in and entering the surgical suite, he's heard Castiel's story, and he's determined to give everything he's got to this procedure.  He approaches the wing spread out and waiting for him, eyeing the bloody gauze and analyzing what the best approach will be to fix the damage.

When he’s ready, he nods.  “Alright, let’s do this.”

***

The recovery ward is quieter than the ICU.  The rooms are separated by actual walls, which dampens the beep of monitors and the hiss of air compressors.  As Sam walks past open doors, he catches snippets of conversations between patients and their visitors, but as always he pays no attention, respecting their privacy.  

He waves at Ellen when she looks up from behind the circular desk in the center of the ward, and smiles sheepishly when she narrows her eyes at him.  “Hey, Ellen,” he says as he leans up against the counter.

“Sam, what are you still doing here?” Ellen demands, even though he’s sure she must know.  She’s known him since he was an intern, loping along behind Dr. Singer and listening with wide-eyed concentration during rounds.  

“I came to check on Castiel.”

“You know the helicopter act was cute when you were an intern,” Ellen grumbles as she pulls out a file and hands it to him over the tall counter.  “But you’ve gotta trust us to take care of the patients too, so you can get some rest.”

“Of course I trust you,” Sam objects as he flips open the file and checks the nurses’ notes.  “And I’m going straight home after this, and sleeping for my whole day off.”

He says it every time his shift ends, but he actually means it this time.  Castiel’s surgery had been intense and time consuming.  His muscles ache, even after a dose of ibuprofen and a short chair massage from Ava before he’d been called into another surgery.  This one scheduled, and an easy in and out procedure, but thanks to his work on Castiel, it had been just another drain on his already exhausted body.  

But there were so many tiny bones to set, and veins and arteries and muscles to repair.  Castiel might even need more surgery to be able to use the wing.  And there’s a high probability he won’t ever be able to fly again.  

Maybe he should have amputated the wing as Dr. Masters had suggested before he even walked into the surgical suite.  But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.  Not after Castiel had saved all those lives.  He deserved every ounce of Sam’s skill to try and get him back to flying form.

Fingers snap in front of his eyes, and he refocuses on Ellen.  From the look on her face, he thinks she’s been talking to him while he spaced out.

“You go check on that angel, and then you get your butt home and into bed, young man.  Y’hear me?”

Sam gives her the crooked grin that he learned from Dean.  The one that melts even the hardest hearts.  “I’ll go home and dream of you,” he teases.  

Another trick he learned from his brother.  Dean always says that Sam gets his way through gratuitous application of puppy dog eyes, but sometimes laying on the charm is a better tool for the job.  Ellen blushes and waves him away, grumbling something along the lines of “ain’t no cougar” as he makes his way across the hall to Castiel’s room.  

Other than the monitors the room is dark enough that Sam can just barely make out the lumpy shape of the angel laying on his stomach, his uninjured wing curled against his back and the one Sam had spent hours meticulously rebuilding hanging in traction.  Because of his wingspan, each wing longer than the angel was tall, they’d had to put him in one of the rooms that had a sliding wall partition that they could open up.  

Sam turns on the light, leaving it dim although he doubts Castiel will notice, and makes his way past the frames holding up the broken wing, and pulls a chair as close to the side of the bed as he dares.  Even unconscious it’s obvious Castiel is in pain by the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and Sam wishes that healing magic was real.  There are angels and demons and supernatural creatures of every shape and size, but go figure that healing magic is a myth.  Supernaturals have the ability to heal quicker than humans, but it’s beyond them to heal anyone but themselves.

Luckily angels heal fast.  Sam just has to pray that he did a good enough job of putting everything back together the way it should be before Castiel’s natural healing ability stuck him with a crooked bone or too short tendons.

He leans toward the bed.  “You’re going to fly again,” he says softly.  “I promise.”

When he gets up to leave the room, he doesn’t see his patient’s eyes open and follow him out the door.

***

Castiel has known pain before.  He was a warrior before he left Heaven to walk among mortals, and he’d been in many battles, fighting hand to hand among the brothers and sisters that he’d commanded.  For what is a leader that does not lead the charge?

He’s lost count of how many injuries he received over the millennia.  He knew many of the Hands of Mercy by name, so that he could thank them properly for their care when they healed him.  

But when he gave up his grace to join the angels settling on Earth, he’d learned that a Heaven-born angel such as himself doesn’t truly know pain.  Not until they slip into their newly born physical bodies.  And even then, they are given time to grow into those bodies, starting as infants and growing to adulthood just as humans do.  So he’d cried over scraped knees, and cut fingers.  He’d even broken his foot on his fourteenth year on Earth, and that had been the most awful summer of his new life.

None of those injuries, not the sword cuts through his celestial form, or the broken bones in his corporeal foot, compared to the agony he feels now.  Waves of it lance through his wing, the pain growing stronger with every heartbeat.

He tries not to brace against the pain, as it only makes it worse, but sometimes he can’t help but flinch away from the oncoming wave.  And today it’s worse because the medication the nurses have been dosing him with doesn’t seem to be working as well as it has since he woke in the hospital two days before to the voice of a young man promising him the power of flight again.

He knows the man now.  Dr. Sam Winchester, who had meticulously rebuilt his wing after it had been shredded by a dozen bullets.  Who checks on Castiel daily, and hides his worry behind kind eyes.

Castiel wants to believe him.  But he is intensely aware of every broken bone and torn muscle.  He can feel them healing, the cells multiplying and filling in gaps.  And it feels _wrong._

Dr. Winchester did everything right.  Everything he could.  But that much damage to a wing?  Castiel has seen earthbound angels with less extensive injuries spend the rest of their lives tethered to the ground.

Flight is a gift from their Father.  One he doesn't take away from them if they choose mortality.  Those who lose it are miserable souls, unable to dance and soar through the sky where they can touch the firmament while looking down on the beauty of God's creation.

Castiel will never have that again.

Tears pool in his eyes and drip over the bridge of his nose and down his cheek to soak the pillow underneath.  They fall faster when he squeezes his lids shut against the sight of his braced and bandaged wing.  A hiccuping sob shifts his shoulders and jostles the wing, sending fresh agony through it.

It's too much to hold inside.  Whimpers rise up in his throat and more tears slip free.

"Hey, hey, Castiel, calm down."  A warm hand cups his face, thumb stroking in a way that does little to soothe his pain, but he nuzzles into the touch anyway.  Dr. Winchester's voice is as gentle as his touch.  "Tell me what's wrong.  Are you in pain?"

The throb of distressed nerves is awful, but pales in comparison to the agony in his heart.  No amount of pain medication can ease that.  Not unless they give him enough to kill him.

His brain latches onto that idea with teeth and claws.  Death will release him from this Hell.  He'll return to Heaven as a soul instead of a celestial wavelength of intent, but he'll be able to relive his happiest memories, many of which include sky dancing.

"Kill me."

" _What?_ "  

Dr. Winchester definitely heard him.  The horror in his voice makes it clear.  Castiel doesn't feel even the slightest twinge of guilt for asking a doctor to break his oath.  "Please," he whimpers.  "Please kill me.  I can't... _I can't..._ " his fingers twist into the sheets around him, and his good wing flutters, the feathers puffing up.

The doctor's fingers tense against Castiel's face.  "Hey, look at me," Dr. Winchester commands softly.  His voice firms, when Castiel doesn't respond.  "Castiel.  Open your eyes and look at me."

It feels like a monumental effort, but maybe if the doctor can see the pain in his eyes he'll grant Castiel's request.  He takes a shuddering breath, and lifts heavy eyelids.

Dr. Winchester's face is close enough that it takes Castiel a moment to focus on him.  Close enough that Castiel can see all the different colors that make up the hazel of his irises.  They're quite lovely.  And full of determination.

"Listen to me," Dr. Winchester says slow and deliberate.  His hand moves from Castiel's face to his shoulder, not touching his wing but close to the joint.  "I know you're hurting right now.  I know you're scared-"

Castiel doesn't have the energy to scoff.

"-but I swear to you, Castiel, that I am going to do everything in my power to help you.   _To live-_ " he stresses when Castiel opens his mouth to request death again, "and to fly."

Never, in all his years in Heaven and on Earth, had Castiel met someone so cruel.  "You make promises you can't keep," he rasps.  And when the doctor opens his mouth to argue, Castiel closes his eyes and turns his face into the pillow.

After a moment the hand on his shoulder disappears.  The doctor's footsteps are quiet against the tiles, despite his size, and so is his voice.  "Ellen, I'm going to increase the dosage for his pain medication, but we're not going to let him self administer it.  We need to put him on suicide watch.”

The footsteps fade away, but Castiel knows he won’t be alone for long.  He wants to be angry that he’ll be put under so much scrutiny, but it seems as if all the emotion has drained from him.  He turns his head on the pillow again, and stares at what remains of his broken wing.  

***

“You’re doing good Nicky!” Dean calls from the edge of the pool.  “Think you can give me another two laps?”

Her face breaks the surface of the water just long enough to give him a grimace.  Then she slips back under the surface and her tail undulates, pushing her back toward the other end, where she taps the wall and then swims back the other way.  

Dean’s chest swells with pride.  Nicky is doing so well, and if she keeps up this kind of progress, he’ll be able to sign off on her papers stating that she’s finished with her therapy.  It’s great news that he can’t wait to give her.  That, along with a statement from her doctor that she’s in remission is going to be cause for celebration.

The room echoes with footsteps, but Dean doesn’t turn away from Nicky.  And he’s not terribly surprised that it’s his brother who joins him at the edge of the pool.  

“How’s she doing?” Sam asks as Nicky finishes her last lap.

“Strong as ever,” Dean replies.  He let’s out a whoop when Nicky surfaces, and applauds her hard work.  “Good job today, Nicky!  Way to kick it in the ass!”

She lifts a fist out of the water in a triumphant gesture and Dean and Sam both laugh and repeat the movement.  Despite being red-faced with exertion, she swims to the edge of the pool and braces her arms on the cement near their feet.  She wiggles her fingers at Sam and grins brightly.  “Hiya, doc!”

“Hey, Nicky, how’s it going?”

“Dean says I’m almost done with this torture, can you believe it?”

Sam chuckles and squats down to talk to her so that he’s not towering over her so much.  “Yeah I totally can.  I knew you’d be up to the challenge.”

Nicky laughs and brushes wet tresses away from her forehead.  “Cancer’s a little bit more than a ‘challenge’, but thanks for having faith in me.”  She waves in Dean’s direction.  “And I couldn’t have done it on my own.”

“Aw, don’t sell yourself short, Dory.  I know you would’a kept on swimming without me.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue.  They’ve known each other long enough that she’s given up on trying to get him to take a compliment.  

The three of them chat for a little bit longer.  Nicky is eager to tell Sam about her recovery.  He’d been the one to remove the tumor in her spine about halfway down her tail, but since he’s a surgeon, he hasn’t been as involved in her recovery as some other doctors have.  He likes to swing by during her physical therapy sessions to check up on her though.  Because Sam has a big heart, and every patient is special to him.  

Eventually her boyfriend comes to pick her up, lifting her out of the pool and setting her gently in what looks like a bathtub on a red radio flyer wagon.  Dean thinks there’s gotta be better equipment out there for the job, but who is he to argue with the Zanna?

After everyone has said their goodbyes, Dean heads for the locker room to change into some dry sweats after getting soaked helping Nicky out of the pool.  Sam follows along, pensively silent now that Nicky is gone, and Dean waits patiently for him to bring up whatever’s eating at him.

When he doesn’t say much by the time Dean is in dry clothes, Dean brings it up himself.  “What’s up, Sammy?  You aren’t tagging along at my heels just to get a peek at my underoos in the locker room, so do you need something?”

Sam’s eyes go wide, and then narrow in irritation at Dean’s teasing.  But other than a prissy huff, he doesn’t address it.  Instead, he gets to the point, finally.  “You ever work with an angel before?”

Dean pauses in the process of packing up his duffel bag and stares at his brother.  “An angel?  I’m not sure any of ‘em would stoop to allowing a human to work with them.”  He knows Sam has performed surgery on a few, but only in the most dire emergencies.  Otherwise angels take care of their own.  But physical therapy?  They'd probably get the angelic choir together to harmonize "nah".

“Yeah, true.” Sam’s pearly whites tug at his bottom lip for a moment while he thinks some more.  “Do you think you could?”

“Work with an angel?” When Sam nods, Dean blinks and looks off into the distance as he considers the question.  He’s worked with just about every creature under the sun, including a grumpy old lady dragon with a busted foot.  “I guess it depends on what’s wrong.  Why?”

“Remember I told you about that surgery I did a few days ago?” Sam prompts.  “The all day one that Dr. Masters wanted me to amputate?”

“Yeah,” Dean draws the word out.  “Are you saying that was an angel?”

Sam nods.  “He’s got a busted wing.  More than busted.”  He winces and rubs his hands together as if he’s washing them in preparation for surgery.  “Practically shredded.  I had to pull out a dozen bullets, set most of the bones, and sew it all back together.”

Forgetting his duffel for a moment, Dean plops down on the bench next to it and let’s out a low whistle.  “Fuck, dude, I can’t believe you _didn’t_  amputate.”  

Anger flashes across Sam’s features, but it’s not directed at Dean.  “Maybe I should have, but after what he did, he deserved every bit of my skill to try and save it.”

A few things click into place inside Dean’s brain, and his eyes widen.  “Wait, is he the angel that stopped the massacre at Purgatory?”

“One and the same.”

“Holy shit, Sam,” Dean breathes.  He looks away from his brother, and around the locker room, but in his mind he’s seeing the inner sanctum of his favorite clubs.  The place kind of looks like a dive, but it’s a haven for supernatural creatures and the kind of place humans can visit too if they don’t mind a little danger.  Dean’s one of those humans, and his best friend Benny is one of the bartenders, so he goes often for a free drink or two.  

And maybe a hook up now and then.  With Benny on occasion, or whoever looks like they can show him the kind of good time he’s looking for.  

Yeah, it’s not always a good idea to hook up with a supernatural, but sometimes the danger scratches his itch.  And besides, he’s been working at Saint Eve’s hospital so long that he almost feels weird around humans unless they're family.

Some asshole human with a superiority complex and an AK-47 that doesn’t belong in the hands of a civilian, but that gun laws in the state of Kansas allow, walked in and began mowing down clubbers left and right.  From what Benny told him the dude was spouting bible verses as he sprayed bullets.  But an angel had jumped into the line of fire, with nothing to shield himself but a wing held in front of his body, and had attacked the guy, ripping the gun from his hands and beating him over the head with it.

He’s never seen an angel in Purgatory before, and he has no idea why one would show up somewhere like that.  Most angels wouldn’t dirty their lily white wings by even walking past it.

“Castiel saved a lot of lives,” Sam says.  “And he needs our help.”

Dean blinks away the mental images and refocuses on his brother.  “Our help?”

Sam’s lips are set in a grim line.  “We’ve got to help him regain the use of his wing.”  

“What?  But Sam, I don’t know a damn thing about angel wings.”

“They’re delicate, but they’re strong, and they need a lot of range of motion,” Sam says firmly.  “And if anyone can get him back in the air, it’s you.”

Dean snorts.  “Dude, I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’ve been working with supernaturals longer than I have,” Sam points out.  “So I don’t see why it’s not possible.”

“Uh, how ‘bout the fact that you told me his wing was pretty much shattered, and should have been amputated?”  Dean gets up from the bench and grabs a few more things from his locker before slamming it shut.  “I’m good at my job, Sam, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Maybe not.  But angels are, and maybe he just needs your brand of encouragement to get him there.”

Dean pauses halfway through zipping his duffel over the last of the laundry he’s taking home, and looks at Sam.  “That was cheesy as fuck, even for you.”

Sam just gives him a cheeky grin.  “Doesn’t make it untrue.”

Sighing, Dean finishes zipping the duffel and hoists it up onto his shoulder.  He looks down into his brother’s face, and curses himself for not being immune to Sam’s brand of puppy dog eyes.  He tries one more time to talk sense into the kid.  "What about his clan?  Aren't they taking him back to treat him?"

"That's the weird thing.  He doesn't have any emergency contacts that we could find, and when he woke up enough to ask, he said he doesn't want their help."  Sam frowns into the middle distance.  "Dean, he... He asked me to kill him."  His eyes come up to Dean's.  "Why would he do that?"

The breath locks itself in Dean's chest for a brief moment.  He knows exactly why this angel might ask for death.  And he also knows that with the right kind of help, Castiel will be glad Sam didn't grant his wish.  Which means Dean's definitely going to help him.  He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, noting absently that it could use a cut.  "Alright, sign me up."

Sam surges off the bench and crushes Dean in his arms.  "Thanks, Dean.  I know you're the right guy for this job."

Dean returns the hug, and silently hopes he can live up to Sam's expectations.  

They part with plans for Dean to accompany Sam to the hospital the next day before his regular appointments start so he can meet Castiel.  As soon as he's home, he raids the fridge for some leftover Chinese - sesame chicken and beef fried rice, mmm - and boots up his laptop while he waits for dinner to warm up.  He's got a lot of research ahead of him if he's going to do anything to help Castiel.

That's assuming he'll accept Dean's help.  Suicidal patients are often difficult to convince that physical therapy is worth a shot.

But Dean knows a little about where Castiel is coming from, and a lot about being stubborn.  Plus he's willing to put in the extra effort.  Not because Sam asked though.

No, he's not staying up late to study for anyone but the heroic angel who sacrificed a limb to protect strangers.  Dean knows the struggle they're both in for, but he was in a similar position once, and he's got some stuff to pay forward.

He settles in the couch with his food and his laptop, ready to get his learn on.

"You better be worth it, Castiel," he mutters around a mouthful of rice as he types in his search into Google with the hand that isn't busy holding a box of steaming chicken.  


	2. Chapter 2

Low voices nearby rouse Castiel from his drugged half doze.  Consciousness is not his favorite state of being, and he's irritated that someone is interrupting his effort to avoid it.  He's got just enough painkillers in his system that he's not in searing agony, but the pain in his wing is a constant throb that makes him wish the whole thing was gone.

_No.  Amputation would be worse._

Just imagining walking through the world with a single wing makes bile rise in his throat.  Furtive stares have followed him his whole mortal life, but he's grown accustomed to them, even if the burden of judgement still weighs heavily upon his heart.  But without a wing?  The open pity, or the knowing whispers that he probably suffers from God's disappointment and is being punished would be more than he can bear.  

Although it will probably happen anyway.  Crippled is crippled, whether the wing hangs from his shoulder or not.

His mind retreats from those thoughts and focuses on the nearby conversation.

"-healing at an accelerated rate.  We should be able to take it out of traction soon.  Maybe in the next few days.  I'm planning on getting new x-rays this afternoon, but I have to get it approved with the powers that be, since there's no insurance to bill, and you know what tightwads they are."

He recognizes the voice as Dr. Winchester, but he doesn't recognize the voice of the man who responds to him.

"That'll give me time to juggle my current client load and make room on my schedule for him."  There's a pause.  "No insurance, huh?"

"No, but we can't not treat him-"

"Calm down, dude, I'm gonna help him anyway."  The stranger's voice holds the warmth of a smile.

Dr. Winchester sighs, but it sounds relieved.  "Thank you, Dean."

"Don't thank me yet," the man who must be Dean replies with a chuckle.  "I'm still deciding whether I should just send you the bill, since you're the bleeding heart that dragged me in here."

"I'll pay it if you do."

The sincere words surprise Castiel enough that his wings twitch.  The sudden movement makes the gear suspending his wing rattle, but it doesn't drown out his hiss of pain.  Within seconds there's a large palm against his shoulder.  His muscles bunch and jump under the touch, sending more agony rolling through his injured limb.

"Castiel, you need to relax, you're pulling at the pins and sutures."  Dr. Winchester's voice is calm, but firm.  "Take a deep breath, and hold it.  That's it.  Let it out over the count of one, two, three, four-"

It takes several long inhales and exhales guided by the doctor's words before the muscles in Castiel's back unclench.  The relaxation moves slowly from his shoulder into his wing, and even though the pain throbs with his heartbeat, it definitely eases.  He continues the exercise for another thirty seconds before opening his eyes.

His doctor is crouched down so he's eye level with Castiel.  As soon as their eyes meet, he smiles.  "Hey, Castiel.  Good morning."

Castiel scowls at Dr. Winchester.  It seems unfair that a man so cruel could have such a sweet smile.  "No, it is not."

His doctor is unfazed, and his smile doesn't budge.  He pats Castiel's shoulder and removes his hand.  "I suppose it could definitely be better, but things can only go up from here, right?"

Rage roars to life in Castiel's chest, but before he can point out that _up_ is forever beyond him, there's a groan from the other man in the room.  "Dude... and I thought I was the insensitive one."

Sam's smile crumbles when he realizes what he said, but then his jaw sets with determination.  "Castiel, I've got someone I'd like you to meet." He stands and steps back, gesturing for the strange man with the gruff voice to come forward.  

It takes a moment for the man to make his way around Castiel's suspended wing.  He's very careful not to make contact with the remaining flight feathers, which Castiel appreciates.  Many of the nurses don't try to avoid brushing them, and don't realize how sensitive they are.

He doesn’t bother to turn his head on the pillow to see who is approaching him.  He doesn’t care.  From what he’s heard of the conversation so far, it’s someone who is supposed to “help” him, but they don’t understand.  He is beyond help.

Unless they want to give him control of the morphine flow and turn the other way.  But he knows that won’t happen.  Just as he knows that he’ll never fly again.

Whoever the man is, he’s either not a doctor or not on duty since he’s not wearing scrubs.  Curiosity pricks at Castiel when he sees the man is wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a pink and purple plaid shirt, but it fades quickly under the weight of his indifference.  

The man crouches down to Castiel’s level, and their eyes meet.  Green eyes flecked with gold regard him from a foot away, and Castiel feels another spark of curiosity, but it’s gone just as quickly as before.  

“Hey,” the man says with a smile that flashes straight white teeth behind pink lips.  “My name’s Dean.”

Castiel blinks slowly at him.  It would be polite to say hello and introduce himself, but he can’t think why it matters.  

Dean doesn’t acknowledge his rudeness though.  His smile stays firmly in place, and he stares back at Castiel, eyes flicking to different parts of his face.  “I’m a physical therapist.  I came to talk to you about starting your therapy as soon as the doctors get you out of this contraption.” He glances up at the framework suspending Castiel’s wing, and his nose wrinkles.  “I’ll bet you’ll be glad to be free of it.”

Considering how much pain any movement causes him, Castiel isn’t so sure about that.  But then again, it would allow him to no longer rely on a catheter and the assistance of nurses to relieve himself if he can get up out of the bed once his wing is free.

Since he’d woken up in the hospital, he’s swung between numbness, rage, and anguish.  Now though, thinking about standing in front of a toilet to relieve himself gives him a twinge of longing.  

Even though Castiel doesn’t acknowledge him, Dean continues.  “We’ll get started as soon as possible.  Can’t do much at first, but you don’t want to wait too long to start exercising the wing.  If you let the muscles get too weak from inactivity it’s an even steeper hill to climb toward recovery.”

Ah, and there’s the rage again.  “What recovery?” Castiel snarls.  His feathers rise up with his anger, and pain assails him as his wings try to flex with his mood.  This time it’s Dean who walks him through the calming breaths, although he doesn’t touch Castiel the same way Sam does.  When he’s got control of his wings again, Castiel glares at Dean.  “I know what kind of damage I took.  My wing is useless.”

“Yeah, it sure as hell is,” Dean says on a sigh.  

The immediate agreement makes Castiel blink in confusion.  “Wh-what?”

Dean turns his attention back to Castiel’s wing, waving a hand at it which makes Castiel look too.  “Well, I mean look at it.  Half the feathers are gone, and the skin is covered in stitches.  And I got a look at the chart, so I know exactly what all got sewn up.”

From this angle Castiel can’t see all of the damage.  Most of the feathers are gone from the back side of the wing, and he only sees the underside.  Some feathers are still missing, but in smaller patches.  There are splints holding the part below the wrist joint straight, and another splint holding the wing out so he can’t fold it to his body.  The sling holds it up so it’s perpetually spread.  

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Dean says, turning his attention back to Castiel.  “It’s going to be a shitload of work to get it back to any kind of useful condition.”

“Why bother?” Castiel mutters.  “I’ll never fly again.”

“Never say never,” Dean counters with a cheeky grin.  Then his eyes grow serious.  “You may be right.  You may never fly again.”

Tears prickle at the back of Castiel’s eyes, and he turns his face into the pillow to hide them from this stranger.  This stranger who offers him hope and despair in one breath.

“But I know you’ll definitely never fly again if you don’t try,” Dean continues.  “And if you ask me, some chance is better than no chance.”

“No one asked you,” Castiel mutters into his pillow.

Dean chuckles.  “True, but I’m real good at sticking my nose in other people’s business.”

“You sound like an awful person.”

“My patients would probably agree with you,” Dean says brightly.  “I’ve been told I’m a master of torture, and that working with me is pure hell.”

Castiel turns his head enough that he can peek at Dean with one eye.  And sure enough, the man is grinning at him.  Proudly.  “I doubt it was meant as a compliment.”

When Dean shrugs his whole body moves with it.  Shoulders, mouth, and eyebrows shifting before his expression settles back into a pleased grin.  “I get results.” He winks.  “And thank you cards.”

The fact that Castiel feels compelled to smile back at Dean makes him angrier than ever, and he turns his face back into the pillow.  “I’m not interested.”

Dean’s sigh brushes warm over Castiel’s neck and shoulder, and goosebumps rise up in its wake.  “Alright, I can’t force you.” He grunts, and when he speaks again his voice comes from a higher elevation.  He must have stood up.  “It was nice meeting you, but I’ve got an appointment in about fifteen minutes, so I’m gonna head out.”

Castiel doesn’t speak into the expectant silence.  After a moment, he hears Dean’s footsteps carrying him away.

“Dean, you said you’d help him.” Castiel had forgotten Dr. Winchester’s presence.  

“Can it, Sammy.  I told him, and I’ll tell you.  I can’t help him if he doesn’t want me to.”

“But-”

“Cool it.  Let’s get out of here so he can rest in peace.”

Sam huffs, obviously annoyed.  But his voice is gentle when he speaks.  “I’ll send Ellen in to check on you, Castiel.  I’ve got rounds, but I’ll be back in a few hours and we'll get these x-rays done.”

Castiel doesn’t thank him, or acknowledge him in any way.  After their footsteps have retreated, he lets the sob building up in his chest free.  Pain from the movement makes him swallow back the rest of his tears, and thankfully when Ellen comes in a few minutes later he’s managed to bring himself back under control.  

She gives him another dose of morphine, and he sinks back down into drugged oblivion.

***

Castiel snores.  It's kind of cute, especially with the way his handsome face is smashed into the pillow.  But Dean doesn't plan on pointing it out to him any time soon.  He's only talked to the angel once, and not for long, but Dean gets the sense that Castiel might have an abundance of pride.  Pricking it won't convince him to accept Dean's help.

Showing up in his room unannounced might not either, but Dean needs to be a little bit pushy or Castiel will never listen to him.  And after having drinks with Benny last night and hearing more about the attack Dean is even more determined to do what he can for Castiel.

Since he has no idea when Castiel will wake up, and he doesn't want to disturb him, Dean settles  himself in the chair reserved for guests and flips through Castiel's medical file.  He winces at some of the descriptions of Castiel's injuries.  They're all in medical terminology, but Dean has experience reading doc-talk, and what it all boils down to is a shit ton of damage.

He's spent the last few days researching wing physiology, and talking to some specialists.  They all think that there's no chance Castiel will ever fly again, but Dean won't give up on that goal.  He's seen people recover from some serious shit through the power of positive thought and sheer chutzpah.

Realistically though, the chances are slim.  Real slim.  But getting Castiel back in the air isn't Dean's only goal.  Pulling him out of his pit of despair is at the top of Dean's list.

He pulls out the x-rays and holds them up to the light a page at a time.  The difference in the before and after images is immense, and Dean's chest swells with pride for his little brother.  Sam is a damn fine surgeon.  Hospitals and specialty clinics across the country have scouted him, and the truth is that Sam is kind of an idiot for turning down so many lucrative offers.

A sentimental idiot who wants to work with supernaturals as well as humans, and prefers to stay at Saint Eve's working with Bobby.  Dean can't blame him because he's turned down plenty of job opportunities to stay close to family too.  And at least Bobby is grooming Sam to take his place as Medical Director someday, although that’s a very long way off since he’s still in his residency.

He's so absorbed in the x-rays that he doesn't notice that the snoring has stopped.  

"What are you doing here?"

Dean lowers the sheet to the folder in his lap, and pulls out his most charming smile in the face of Castiel's acidic glare.  "Morning, sunshine!  Well it's afternoon actually, but you've been working on your beauty sleep all day."  He winks.  "Not that you need it."

Castiel's glower darkens.  "I asked you a question."

Alright then, he's resistant to flirting.  Dean's smile doesn't slip, though.  He's cracked tougher nuts.  "The doc says they're taking you out of that sling today.  I'm here to get started on your PT.  Nothing too rough though since it’s the first day.”

“I told you I didn’t want your help.”

“True,” Dean nods slowly.  “But at the very least I’d like to help you through the first few days without that contraption.” He flicks his fingers at the sling.  “You’re probably not even going to be able to fold your wing up on your own, and balance is gonna be a bitch.”

He sees a flash of despair in Castiel’s pretty blue eyes before it’s hidden behind a mask of irritation.  “And why do I need you for that?  I assume the doctors and nurses can do something so simple.”

Dean shrugs and grins.  “Eh, what can I say?  I’m a sucker for a handsome face.”  His flirting hadn’t worked the first time, but at this point Dean really is here for his own kicks so he doesn’t see a reason to keep things professional.  He does find Castiel attractive.  That’s not why he wants to help the angel, but it’s a bonus.  “And maybe you don’t need _me,_  but I ain’t got anything else to do for a few hours.  Might as well help the grumpy angel and let the nurses attend to the patients that’ll actually appreciate them.”

Castiel’s scowl deepens, and he looks away, a flush rising up in his cheeks.  “I appreciate them.”

“Do you?  Not from what I hear.” Castiel’s eyes flick back to his, and Dean answers the silent question he sees in them.  “Oh don’t worry, nobody’s bad-mouthing you.  Everyone’s rooting for you.  But I know what you asked Sam to do.”

The glossy black feathers puff up on Castiel’s wings, and the frame of the sling rattles slightly.  He looks like he wants to jump out of the bed and do some violence, and Dean thinks he’d be pretty damn intimidating if he wasn’t confined to a hospital bed and partially crippled.  Hell, he actually _does_  look like he could rise up and throw a punch if he really wanted to work through the pain.

“He shouldn’t have shared that with you,” Castiel says in a low growl that raises goosebumps along Dean’s limbs.  

“No, he shouldn’t have,” Dean agrees softly.  “But he cares about your recovery enough to break a few rules.”

“What recovery?” Castiel snarls.  And now his good wing is rising up over his shoulder, even as the broken one is held still.  “He doesn’t know what I’ve lost.”

Dean flips the folder on his lap closed and stands.  It’s a dick move to tower over the injured angel, but if Castiel is going to pull out the threatening body language, Dean isn’t going to sit by and let him think he can intimidate him with a little wing flap.  But he does brace a hand on the bed’s rail, and lean down so Castiel doesn’t have to strain his neck to meet his gaze.  

“Look, buddy.  You’re not the only person to wake up in a hospital and hear the news that your life is gonna be different.  You’re definitely not the last.  But _different_ isn’t the same as _over_ , and you’ve got people who care enough to show you that.” He pauses to let those words sink in, then he steps back from the bed and sits down on the edge of the chair.  He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.  “We’re just asking you to give us a chance.”

Castiel’s wings settle back down, the glossy black feathers smoothing out.  Genuine confusion twists his lips into a frown.  “But why?  You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” Dean agrees.  “But I know several of the people whose lives you saved.  And they’d be happy to know that you’re still alive and kicking.  In fact, I’ve got it on good authority that Purgatory has you on their ‘free drinks for life’ list now.”

“So you’re torturing me out of gratitude?” Castiel grumbles.  But there’s a softening around his eyes.

“This ain’t the real torture, Cas,” Dean says with a laugh.  “And I meant what I said about it being your choice whether to let me try and help you or not.  But if nothing else, I want to help you get through the first few days out of traction.  Purgatory’s very own guardian angel gets to drink for free now, and it wouldn’t do me any good to buy you a drink as a thank you.  So.” He shrugs.  “This is what I got.  What do you say?”

Castiel’s eyes flicker back and forth as he searches Dean’s.  After a long moment, he presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.  

“Awesome,” Dean says brightly.  He bounces up from his chair and pushes it away with a foot so he can make his way around Castiel’s suspended wing.  “I’m gonna go get the doc, and we’re going to get you out of this thing.”

He doesn’t wait around to give Castiel time to change his mind.  And as soon as he’s out the door, he rushes over to the nurses’ desk and leans across the high counter to get Ellen’s attention.  “He’s ready.”

She lights up at the news and reaches for the phone, already punching in a number before she puts the receiver up to her ear.  “I’ll get Sam up here asap.”

It turns out Sam is finishing up an appendectomy, so he’ll be at least an hour.  Dean doesn’t mind the delay, since he’d freed up his whole schedule for the day.  Besides, it’ll give him some time to work on Castiel a little more.  He thanks Ellen for her time, and heads back to the angel’s room.

“Sam’s going to be about an hour,” Dean says as he heads back for his chair.  He smiles warmly when Castiel’s eyes blink open and latch onto him with surprise.  “I can get out of your hair if you want to take another nap.  Or I can hang out for a bit.”

“Why?”

“You’re like a five year old who just discovered that question,” Dean teases.  “Why not?”

He probably shouldn’t think Castiel’s scowl is adorable.  Kinda like the snoring.  But it _is._

“What would we talk about?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know, whatever.” Dean could honestly ask a million questions.  Like why was Castiel in Purgatory when most angels wouldn’t come within miles of a place like that.  Or why he jumped in front of a terrorist.  Or even why the hell are his wings black?  Dean’s really itching to ask that one.  But those are all far too personal, and he keeps his curiosity in check.  

But Castiel beats him to the conversation starter.  “You seem very familiar with Sam.  Is he your…”

Dean jumps in before Castiel can finish the thought, because he knows where it’s going.  “He’s my little brother.”

Castiel blinks at him.  “Oh.”

“Did you think we were something else?”

The good wing shifts in what looks like a shrug, and Castiel smiles a little sheepishly.  It’s much cuter than the scowl.  “I don’t know, maybe.  I’m on drugs, so I can’t see clearly and you two look different.”

Dean rolls his eye and huffs, but it’s good natured.  “Yeah, yeah, I got the looks, and he got the brains, I know.”

He can see Castiel trying not to smile at his nonsense, and he thinks maybe he's got his foot in the door.  Now he just needs to keep Castiel on the path to recovery.

***

Castiel doesn't want to like Dean, but it's difficult to remain aloof in the face of the human's good cheer.  He doesn't seem to mind that Castiel is mostly silent, and chatters on about Dr. Winchester, telling Castiel stories that he's not sure the doctor would want strangers knowing.  Castiel zones out more than once, exhaustion and pain and medication working together to make it difficult to concentrate.  Dean's warm, deep voice lulls him, and for the first time since he woke up in this damn hospital, he is able to think about something besides the constant pain and his looming future.  

Too soon, Dean's voice is cut off by the entrance of Castiel's doctor and two nurses.  He's standing outside Castiel's field of vision, but the surprise is clear in his voice.

"Dean, what are you doing here?"

"Oh y'know, just hanging out," Dean answers breezily.  He winks at Castiel.  "Telling Castiel here embarrassing stories about you."

Dr. Winchester walks around to where Castiel can see him, and snaps up the folder in Dean's lap.  His brow is furrowed in a scowl aimed at his brother.  "You may work here, but I can still call security on you, you know."

"But Cas wanted the company." Dean's eyes twinkle with mirth when he looks to Castiel.  "Right, buddy?"

Castiel blinks, both at the shortening of his name and that Dean called him _buddy_.  "I wasn't aware that we are friends."

As Dr. Winchester covers an amused smirk behind his hand, Dean splutters and presses a hand over his heart.  "Of course we're friends!  I just told you about the time Sam puked all over a clown's shoes at the state fair.  You think I tell that story to just anyone?"

That wipes away the doctor's smile, and he glares down at his brother.  "You told him what?"

"Is that what you were talking about?" Castiel resists the urge to shrug since he can feel his pain killers wearing off.  "I wasn't paying attention."

Dean huffs in offense, and Dr. Winchester smacks him lightly in the arm.  

"If he's annoying you, Castiel, I'll ask him to leave."

Both brothers wait patiently as Castiel considers.  He understands Dr. Winchester's drive to help him, but he doesn't understand Dean.  Castiel has already declined his services, but Dean showed up anyway to help him.  And then he kept Castiel company as if they really are friends.  Dean told him about his friends at the club, but it doesn't seem like enough to merit this kind of attention.  

But despite his confusion he did agree to allow Dean to help him.  Hopefully he won’t regret it.

"He's not annoying me.  Yet," he adds when Dean perks up.  The resulting pout tempts Castiel to smile, but he doesn't want to encourage Dean too much.  

Sam concedes with a nod.  "Alright, well we're going to get you out of this thing."  He pats the frame holding Castiel's wing lightly, so as not to jostle it.  "So I'm going to send Dean out-"

"I'm helping," Dean cuts in.

"Dean, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I've got all the training and certifications that make it a good idea.  I'm here for Cas."

Castiel surprises himself by coming to Dean's defense.  "I don't mind, Dr. Winchester."

His doctor sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.  If he meant to clear it from his eyes, he failed since it flops right back to where it was.  "Alright if you're okay with him helping then I'm fine with it."  He smiles warmly at Castiel.  "And you're welcome to call me Sam.  It feels a little weird being called Dr. Winchester now that you know about my clown-phobia."

Dean snickers and grins unrepentantly in the face of Sam’s sharp stare.  

Watching the brothers interact sends a pang through Castiel’s chest, and he does his best not to think about why he’s alone in the hospital with none of his own siblings visiting him.  What little improvement Dean’s chatter brought to his mood crumbles away, and it feels like a bottomless cavern opens up inside him.  

They don’t seem to notice.  Sam starts giving instructions and his voice drones on, explaining to Castiel what he’s doing even though Castiel has stopped paying attention.  For once the pain inside is worse than the physical pain, and he retreats within himself to avoid both.  

Until he hears his name new nickname spoken from very close.

“Cas?”

Castiel blinks and focuses on Dean.

“Is it okay if we touch you now?” Dean asks gently.

No one really asks him if they can touch him.  The nurses certainly don’t bother to ask before poking and prodding him.  Dr. Winchester - Sam - doesn’t either.  But Castiel supposes that’s part and parcel of being an invalid.  Everyone puts their hands all over you, in an effort to fix you.  

But Dean asks.  Even though he’s been pushy and obnoxious, he asks permission first.

“Yes,” Castiel croaks through a dry throat.

Dean’s smile lights him up.  Castiel tries to imagine what his soul might look like, but it’s difficult to hold an image like that in his mortal mind.  

Hands cup his wing and he gasps, forgetting about Dean’s smile.  He can tell that they’re trying to be gentle, and also quick, but every little vibration sends shafts of pain through the damaged limb.  He squeezes his eyes shut, and feels tears slip free.  They leave a damp trail over the bridge of his nose, and the pillow grows moist under his cheek.  

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says softly from above him.  “We’re gonna fold this bad boy up.  Try and relax.”

Despite the warning, Castiel tenses when they start to bend his wing.  

“Breathe through it, Cas,” Sam says.  “Count it out in your head.  One, two, three, four…”

It takes a few minutes for him to unclench his shoulder muscles enough to let the wing start to fold in on itself.  The people guiding it whisper to each other, as if they’re afraid that loud voices might hurt him worse.  Not that he can hear them over the whimpers escaping from between his lips.

Folding the wing against his back feels like it takes an eternity, but suddenly no one is pushing on it anymore.  A sling is wrapped around it, and Dean helps him up onto his arms so that the straps can be fastened around his chest.  And then the hands are gone.

Castiel buries his face in the pillow to muffle the pained sounds that he can’t seem to stop.  It also soaks up his tears, and hides him from pitying stares.  

Fingers brush through the hair on the back of his head, petting him.  It’s a very intimate touch, but Castiel doesn’t want it to stop.  He clings to the comfort and leans into it, wordlessly asking for more.  The soft stroking continues, and eventually he’s able to get control of himself.  

And then he feels the false lethargy of morphine trickle through his veins.  A coolness spreads through his wing, and his muscles turn to jelly.  It takes everything he has to turn his head on the pillow.

Dean is crouched down so that his face is even with Castiel’s and his lovely green eyes are tight with worry.  It eases slightly when he smiles.  “Heya, Cas.”

“Dean.”

“The nurses are going to get you a dry pillow,” Dean murmurs.  “Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Thank you.”

Dean’s fingers stop petting and rest high on the back of Castiel’s neck, squeezing the muscles there in a light massage.  Castiel should probably protest, but doesn’t actually mind the touch.

“Get some rest for right now, Cas,” Sam says from somewhere nearby.  “Rest heals.”

“Okay.”

He hears the rustle of papers, then retreating footsteps, and he doesn’t look around but he knows he’s alone with Dean again.  He’s staring, but it’s hard to care at the moment because counting the human’s freckles is suddenly a most fascinating endeavor.

Dean chuckles.  “Yeah well it might take you a while.  You’re kinda loopy, so you might lose count.”

He didn’t realize he’d said anything out loud.

“Morphine makes everyone say weird stuff, so don’t worry about it, Cas.”

Castiel screws his face up in what he thinks is an annoyed scowl, but whatever he manages just makes Dean laugh.  “You’re very lovely, Dean,” he says.  The morphine is definitely loosening his tongue.  He doesn’t think he likes that side effect.

“Trust me, nobody likes that side effect,” Dean agrees with a wink.  He looks toward the door and accepts something from someone outside Castiel’s line of sight, and then turns his attention back to Castiel.  “Got your pillow,” he says.  “Think you’re up for a little more moving around so we can get this situated?”

“Yes.”  

Dean is infinitely gentle as he helps Castiel lift his head long enough to remove the wet pillow and replace it.  The new one is cool and dry against his cheek, and Castiel nuzzles down into it.  And Dean is massaging the back of his neck again.  It’s very nice.

“I figured you needed a little bit of positive touch after that ordeal,” Dean says.

Damn his drug-addled tongue.  Castiel wrinkles his nose.  “I don’t like morphine.”

“You’ll be off it before you know it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Alright, grumpy.” Dean squeezes a little more firmly.  “I should probably get out of here so you can rest.”

Castiel’s eyes had shut without his permission, and he pries them open now so he can get one last look at Dean.  “Will you be back?”

He really really likes it when Dean smiles at him.  He’s going to have to try and remember what he said to bring it out.

“Yeah, Cas.  I’ll be back tomorrow after lunch time.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

The morphine sinks the last of its claws in him, and his eyes slide closed again.  He hears Dean say something, but doesn’t register the words.  The last thing he’s aware of is the last gentle stroke of Dean’s fingers through his hair before consciousness slips away.


	3. Chapter 3

The impala rumbles to a stop and Dean leans over the steering wheel so he can get a better look at the apartment complex Castiel directed him to.  It's not the worst he's ever seen, but it definitely lands in the territory of _seedy and full of small time drug dealers._ "This is your place?"

Leather creaks under Castiel when he shifts his weight in the back seat where he's half laying down to keep from putting pressure on his bad wing.  "It is."

Dean clamps his lips shut on all his questions about why an angel ended up in such a dump, _alone_ , when they usually live together in large expensive multi-family houses or in the treetop houses of local forests.  Not his business.  Not yet.  He's made progress with Castiel by showing up every day and pestering him into doing a few stretches and exercises, but they aren't exactly friends.  

A point Castiel made quite clear when Dean offered to get him home and watch over him for the first twenty-four hours after the doctors cleared him to leave the hospital.  Dean tries not to let that get to him since Castiel is being a lot more cooperative than Dean really expected him to be.  And he _is_ still tripping on pain killers and sporting a crippled wing.  He can't really be blamed for being a grumpy fucker.

So Dean doesn't press.  He helps Castiel out of the car and up to the top floor of the building via the stairs because the elevator isn't big enough to accommodate a full grown angel's wings, even folded tightly against his back.  They take several breaks, since Castiel is still weak and wobbly.  They eventually make it but Castiel is leaning heavily against Dean while he unlocks the door.

The little studio is much nicer on the inside although it seems small enough that Castiel's wingtips would reach both walls if he spread them.  It would be plenty of space for someone without wings, but Dean feels cramped just imagining what it must be like for an angel.  Like being a canary in a too small cage.

Again he says nothing and guides Castiel to an oval shaped piece of furniture that looks like it might be a couch or a bed, and is probably used as both.  It's built to accommodate wings, and is covered in pillows and blankets of every color of the rainbow and then some.

Castiel curls into it, although he holds his braced wing awkwardly so he doesn't put any pressure on it.  He sighs and nuzzles into the bright colors, looking so much like a bird settling into its nest that Dean rubs a hand over his mouth to cover a smile.

"Thank you," Castiel murmurs.  "It's good to be home."

"Yeah, I'll bet."  There's no irony in Dean's words.  Hospitals are not comfortable, and anyone would be happier in their own bed.  

Sam wasn't happy about releasing Castiel, and had tried to keep him at the hospital on the grounds that there was no one to provide home care for him.  But Castiel wanted out and the hospital administration was chomping at the bit to free up the bed for a paying customer, so Dean had come to the rescue, much to Sam's annoyance.  But he didn’t have grounds to protest anymore since Dean is a medical professional and Castiel will do better under his care than almost anyone else.

"Can I get you anything?" He asks as he looks around, mapping out the little apartment.

Castiel doesn't answer for a long moment, and Dean is beginning to think he fell asleep by the time he says anything.  "I'm hungry," he says in a small voice devoid of inflection.

"That's something I can fix," Dean says brightly.  

Although after opening the fridge and the cupboards he realizes that it's going to require a trip to the store since there's not much in Castiel's apartment that is worth cooking.  And from the smell of his fridge, what's in there should probably be thrown out.

"Think you'll be ok by yourself for a bit while I run to the store?"  He asks, already rattling his keys and mentally making a shopping list.

Castiel rolls enough to give Dean an annoyed squint over his shoulder, which is answer enough.

Also cute as fuck.  Dean grins wider, but keeps that thought to himself.  "Do you have any preferences?  Food allergies?"

"No."  Castiel rolls back into his nest and hides under his wings.  The feathers fluff up then smooth back down.

Dean says his goodbyes, promising to be quick, and heads to the store.  He gets stuff that he wants to eat since Castiel didn't specify a preference, and lets himself back into the apartment less than half an hour later.  Castiel is nowhere to be seen, but Dean hears the shower going behind the door at the back of the apartment.

He considers knocking to make sure Castiel is ok in there by himself, but decides against it.  They're already going to be in close quarters for the night, and he doesn't want to overwhelm Castiel with his presence.  So he drops his duffel and sleeping bag that he brought up from the car near the door, then starts dinner, keeping his ears pricked for any sounds that might indicate he's needed.

He's frying beef patties in a warped pan he found inside the stove when Castiel emerges from the bathroom.  Dean looks up to greet him and nearly swallows his tongue.  He's not shocked by the sight of Castiel's bare chest because he's had time to become familiar with it while the angel was in the hospital.  And Castiel is dressed in a pair of loose black sweat pants, so it's not like Dean’s getting an eyeful of his junk.  

No, it’s definitely the wet, spiky hair and the heated flush of Castiel’s skin.  His damp wings shimmer, and Dean thinks he almost catches flashes of color among the pitch black feathers.

“Can you help me?” Castiel asks as he holds out the brace he’s supposed to keep his wing in.  

Dean blinks and clears his throat, turning back to the stove to hide his reaction.  He flips off the burner and covers the pan with a lid to keep in the heat, then washes his hands before approaching Castiel.  He eyes the angel’s wings.  “Do you need to dry them off first?”

“It’s difficult to do with a towel,” Castiel murmurs.  He glances over his shoulder and his feathers shift, but he winces and pulls his injured wing closer.  “Normally I’d go out on the balcony and sun them.”

“Do you want to do that before you put the brace back on?” Dean asks with a glance at the sliding glass door.  The blinds are closed over it, so he doesn’t know how much space there is, but if Castiel can get out there and spread his wings, Dean’ll be there to support him.

Castiel also turns his attention to the balcony, his eyes wistful.  “Yes.”

“Come on, I’ll help you.”

“What about dinner?” Castiel looks back up at Dean, his blue eyes solemn.

Dean shrugs.  “It’ll be fine for a few minutes.  I can finish while you’re out there drying off.”

Castiel agrees to the suggestion and Dean opens the blinds, and slides the glass door open.  The balcony isn’t large, and it’s surrounded by a cast iron fence, but there’s a stool in the corner that Dean helps Castiel settle down on.  He guides Castiel’s injured wing until it’s spread out, and once he’s sure Castiel is comfortable he goes back inside to finish cooking.  

Every so often he glances out the door, and he smiles at the way Castiel turns his face up to the sun.  In the unforgiving lights of the hospital Castiel had looked pale, but under the yellow sunlight he looks much healthier.  His skin is tanned golden with only minimal tan lines - hinting that going shirtless is his default - and his hair is actually dark brown, not black like his wings.  

And for the first time Dean sees Castiel really smile.  Not just the softening around his eyes that Dean witnessed a few times when he made silly jokes, but an actual, honest to goodness smile with teeth and everything.

Damn.  He’s sexy.

Pushing that thought away, because it’s not appropriate under the circumstances, Dean finishes dinner.  He doesn’t know what Castiel wants on his burger, so he adds a little bit of everything he likes on his own, then adds a scoop of the pre-made potato salad he’d bought to complete the meal (it’s the only kind of salad he really likes and if Castiel wants veggies, he's out of luck).  

When he brings it out to Castiel, he’s reluctant to interrupt the angel’s meditation but sliding open the screen door alerts Castiel to his presence anyway.  When Castiel’s eyes land on the plate in Dean’s hand his smile widens, and he reaches for it eagerly.  

“Burgers are my favorite,” he says almost shyly.  

There’s not a place to sit out there with him, but Dean leans against the rail and picks up his burger with one hand, ignoring the pickles and onions that slide out of the bun to plop down on his plate.  “Awesome, mine too.” He takes a big bite and chews for a moment before adding “besides pie.”

Castiel doesn’t answer because his mouth is full and he looks like he’s having a religious experience.  It’s not until he’s devoured half of the burger that he finally looks up, and his eyes shine.  “These make me very happy,” he says through greasy lips.

Apparently the way to an angel’s heart is through their stomach.

 

***

On the first day of physical therapy Castiel regrets every decision in his life that has led him up to this point.  And he’s barely done more than extend his wing five times out of the twenty Dean is asking him for.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says from behind him where he’s gently guiding Castiel’s wing through its movements.  “You’re a quarter of the way there.  Don’t give up on me now.”

_Don’t give up on me now._   It’s Dean’s mantra.  Castiel has heard it so many times since Dean brought him home from the hospital two weeks ago that he wants to strike the individual words from his memory.  Unfortunately, they’re all useful outside of that cursed sentence.

After Castiel got out of the hospital, Dean had stayed with him the first night.  And Castiel didn’t expect to see him any more after that.  But the persistent human had shown up every evening, cooking him dinner and coaxing him from his nest.  Even when Castiel had shown no interest in anything but sleeping, Dean had been insistent that he get up and get dressed.  Make himself meals.  Go for walks outside of his apartment.  And every time Castiel balked, which was his reaction to pretty much everything Dean suggested, it was _c’mon, Cas, don’t give up on me now!_

Somehow that exact same sentence is also the reason Castiel is now sitting in the hospital gym with Dean, doing the PT that he’d adamantly refused before he left the hospital.  He’s not sure how it happened.  Maybe deep down he’d hoped that Dean would shut the hell up about _not giving up on him now_  once he was signed up for the PT sessions.  If that’s the case, it was a hope in vain.

Castiel grits his teeth and lifts his wing for the sixth rep.  It feels twenty pounds heavier, and the muscles resist his orders.  Nerve damage, probably.  Sam had said it was a possibility.  

“Good, Cas.  Keep going, one at a time.”

If his wing wasn’t weak and sore, Castiel would knock Dean on his ass with it.  

But then again, if it wasn’t weak and sore he wouldn’t be here.  He tries to ignore the growing burn of fatigue by thinking about what he’d be doing instead.  It doesn’t work, because his life is dull and uninteresting, and Dean’s voice counting his reps is distracting.

“Good job, Cas,” Dean says brightly from over his shoulder.  “Two more and you’re done.”

It still feels like too much, but he takes a deep breath and _pushes_  his wing out and up, once, twice…

“There you go, buddy.” Dean’s hands are gentle as they guide Castiel’s wing back into a resting position.  “You did good today.”

Twisting to look at Dean over his shoulder, Castiel tries to determine if he’s serious or not.  “I do twenty wing lifts, and you think that’s _good?_   A month ago I could lift my body into the air with that wing, and now look at me,” he gestures at his sweat soaked chest.  “I feel like I’ve flown a hundred miles without rest.”

Dean comes around to stand in front of the bench Castiel is sitting on, and he offers Castiel a water bottle.  “Recovering takes time, Cas.”

“What recovery?” Castiel mutters as he snatches the bottle from Dean’s hand.  That question seems to have become his own mantra.  He glares up at Dean as he takes several long swigs.  

His behavior is deplorable, but Dean’s optimism makes him angry.  He’s _crippled_  and Dean is wasting both of their time.  He should call this whole thing off, and-

And what?  Go back to his lonely little apartment, and continue to make magical charms to sell online, and hope that none of his family comes looking for him?  He was doing that already, and as much as he resents Dean for trying to give him false hope, he’s glad to have a reason to go outside and interact with people.

Although he could really do without the pitying stares from everyone who sees his sling.  He’s got enough self pity to go around, thank you very much.

Dean doesn't even flinch in the face of his anger.  He grins, that cocky one that makes Castiel want to fly him up in the sky and drop him.  "You're healing, and that counts as progress.  And I'd bet real dollars that Sam is going to clear you to stop wearing the sling when you see him tomorrow."

"Just because my wing looks healed, doesn't mean I'm recovering," Castiel mutters.  He holds the empty water bottle out to Dean, then lets his shoulders and wings slump when he takes it.

A dull ache spreads through his right wing, and his bitterness increases.  He very carefully avoids looking at it.  It itches horribly where the feathers are starting to grow in, but both of his wings feel scratchy.  The feathers are dull and dry, but he can't bring himself to properly groom them.

Not that they've had a full grooming in recent months.  Even before he'd been shot he would have been embarrassed to have them seen by another angel.  It's a difficult job without assistance, and it's not really something he can ask a random one night stand to do for him.  

A warm hand comes down on his shoulder, the one closest to his crippled wing.  "Hey," Dean says softly, bending down so he can more easily meet Castiel's eyes when he looks up.  "I know it doesn't seem like much in comparison to flying.  But from the outside I can see how much progress you've already made, and you're only going to get better from here."

"How do you know?" From this close Castiel can see the chips of gold in Dean's green eyes, and he can't look away.  He _needs_ to know how Dean thinks there's going to be a happy ending to this story.

Dean's fingers tighten against Castiel's skin, and the pressure eases an ache Castiel didn't notice under the constant pain radiating from his wing.  "Because I have faith, Cas."

"Faith," Castiel repeats flatly.  "You're really going to bring up faith with _me?_   I'm an angel, you ass."  Dean chuckles, and Castiel narrows his eyes, savoring the mental image of dropping him from the sky again. "I'm already familiar with God and his hands off parenting method, thank you."

"Not in God," Dean says lightly, as if his blasphemy is as meaningless as using _heck_ as a swear word.  "I have faith in _you._ "

Castiel leans back and stares at Dean, trying to understand what the fuck he just said.  It's a language Castiel feels like he should understand, but the words are put together in a sentence that makes _zero sense._ "Why?" he demands.

"Because you're a stubborn bastard.  Never underestimate the power of sheer bullheadedness."  Dean pats his shoulder and straightens.  "Come on, it's time for the tough stuff."  

Castiel stares after Dean as he saunters away, confident that Castiel will follow him written in every line of his body.  It makes Castiel want to stay planted on the bench, which just proves Dean's point about his stubborn nature.  Damn him.  With a huff, Castiel pushes to his feet.

His balance _is_ better.  Even with the sling on he's regained enough mobility in his right wing to keep himself from listing to the side when he stands, and he no longer feels like he needs a hand on the wall to steady himself.  Or a hand on the arm of a certain obnoxious green eyed physical therapist who told Castiel it was his choice whether to accept help, then turned around and gave it anyway.

" _You're_ stubborn," he mutters at Dean's retreating back.  But he pulls his wings tight against his shoulders and follows.

Dean leads him to a smaller room of the gym.  There are a couple of padded tables, the kind with an opening at one end for someone to put their face if they lay on their stomach.  While Castiel watches from just inside the door, Dean grabs the end of one table and drags it closer to one of the others, putting it at an angle that Castiel realizes will allow him to stretch his injured wing over it.

Castiel's eyebrows go up when Dean turns to him with an expectant look.  "You're going to give me a massage?"

"Yep."  Dean drapes towels over the tables then hooks a thumb toward the main table.  "Hop on up.  Lie face down."

Dumbfounded, Castiel obeys the order.  He grits his teeth against the pain of spreading his wing, and is grateful when Dean assists him with gentle hands.  It feels awkward keeping his good wing folded, and Dean must notice because he pulls over a third table and tells him to stretch out the other one too.  

He doesn't need help with that one, and it stretches much wider.  He feels a flash of intense hatred for both wings, but it burns out quickly, replaced by the solid earthy weight of sorrow.  He barely listens to Dean as he chatters about scar tissue buildup and tendon elasticity.  

"I'm not gonna sugar coat it for you," Dean says from above Castiel's right shoulder.  "This is not going to be pleasant.  But it's necessary, and I swear it'll get better."

Castiel shrugs weakly in response to Dean's warning.  Very little is pleasant to him these days.  What's one more thing to add to such a long list?

_That's not completely true,_ Castiel's mind protests.   _You've come to enjoy Dean's company._

And Dean's cooking.  If he's not careful, he'll get fat and won't be able to fly no matter what kind of faith Dean has in him.

His whole body twitches with surprise when Dean's fingers comb through the patchy feathers of his injured wing.

"Sorry," Dean murmurs.  "It's going to get worse."

Castiel opens his mouth to protest that Dean only startled him with the intimate touch, but then Dean applies pressure to the muscles under the sensitive feathers and what comes out is a yelp of pain.  It's instinct to pull away, but his wing is weak and Dean easily holds it immobile with a hand on the elbow joint.  And then he goes back to trying to mangle Castiel's wing.

"I know it sucks, buddy," Dean says soothingly, but he doesn't let up.  "I told you this was the tough part."

Castiel wants to yell at him and call him a monster in every language he knows - which is _all of them -_ but his bottom lip is caught between his teeth and the only sounds he's capable of making are pained gasps and broken whimpers.  So he concentrates on breathing through the pain and relaxing, the way Sam taught him.  He has no idea if it's helping, but at least it's slightly distracting.

Eventually the pain… doesn’t _dull_  exactly, but the burn of abused flesh spreads out and becomes easier to tolerate.  He doesn’t know how long the massage lasts, but eventually Dean’s hands move away from the worst of the injuries and start moving toward his back.  Castiel’s muscles unclench, and turn to jelly under Dean’s touch.  His whole body sinks into the cushioned table, and now his sighs are soft and satisfied.

Until Dean’s fingers brush close to the oil glands at the base of his wings.  He flares them up, knocking Dean’s hands away, and even though his injured wing feels ten times heavier than his good wing, he still manages to smack Dean under the chin with the elbow joint.  Hard enough that he hears the click of Dean’s teeth.

Castiel pushes himself up on his arms and winces when he sees Dean holding a hand over his mouth, face scrunched up in pain.  “Oh my God, Dean!  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Dean cuts him off with a wave.  His voice is muffled by his hand.  “‘s okay, Cas.” He pulls his hand away from his mouth, checking it for blood.  There’s just a hint of it on his bottom lip, which he licks away with a wince that he smiles through.  “I’m ok, just got my lip with my teeth.”

But Castiel isn’t interested in hearing his denials.  He hops down from the table and closes the space between them.  Cupping Dean’s jaw, he forces the taller man to tilt his head down, and thumbs at his chin until he opens his mouth.  Castiel carefully rolls his bottom lip down, and frowns at the cut.  It’s already swelling, and oozing blood.  “It’s not bad, but you should put some ice on it.”

When he looks up, he’s caught by the intensity of Dean’s stare.  And that’s not anger shining in his eyes.  It’s a different kind of heat, that Castiel isn’t naive enough to misunderstand.  And he feels an answering flare inside himself.

He should let go of Dean and back away.  But if he does that, he’ll be alone again.  No flock, no friends, no lovers.  Just himself and his broken wing, and a future tethered to the ground yawning wide around him.  

Doing what he should has never been his strength.  

So instead, he does what he wants.  He leans his weight into his toes and lifts his chin.  

Dean’s eyes flare wide in realization, but his head dips down.  His lips are still held parted by Castiel’s thumb, and his breath brushes over Castiel’s mouth, warm and damp and scented like blood and cinnamon gum.

The clatter of a door opening behind them breaks the spell, and they step apart.  Castiel’s hands slip from Dean’s cheeks, and press against his own chest as if he can calm its mad gallop through touch.

“Hey, guys!  Ash told me I’d find you in here.”

A mask of composure comes down over Dean’s features even though pink rides high in his cheeks, and he leans to the side so he can see around Castiel’s half flared wings.  “Heya, Sammy!” he greets a little too brightly.  “What brings you to the gym?”

Castiel forces his wings to relax, and turns to greet his doctor with what he hopes looks like a smile and not like he’s gassy.  “Hello, Sam.”

Either Sam doesn’t notice Castiel’s discomfort, or he assumes it’s coming from his wing and not the fact that he nearly kissed Dean and got caught doing it.  His eyes trace over Castiel, lingering on his wing for a moment before he meets Castiel’s gaze again.  “I thought I’d come down and see how your first session is going before I go on shift this afternoon.  You’re not threatening to kill Dean, so he must have been going easy on you.”

“He just gave me a bloody lip instead of threatening me,” Dean swipes at the blood welling up on his bottom lip again and displays the glistening crimson on his fingertips.  But he’s grinning proudly.  “And Cas is doing great!  He didn’t wuss out on me and try to get out of anything I asked him to do.”

Castiel slants a confused glare in Dean’s direction.  “All I did were some wing lifts, some stretches, and then you tried to undo all of your brother’s meticulous work with your-” he lifts his fingers and hooks them in quotations, “- ‘massage’ skills.”

Sam laughs and his hair slides down over his eyes when he shakes his head at them.  “Dean’s been threatened with worse.”  He gestures at Castiel’s wing.  “I know our appointment is tomorrow, but mind if I take a look now?  Make sure Dean didn’t do any real damage?”

“Hey, what about me?” Dean whines.  “I’m the one who’s bleeding.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but steps closer to Dean and roughly tilts his head up and pulls his lip down.  He gives the cut a cursory glance, then pats Dean on the cheek before letting him go.  “You’ll live, you big baby.  Put some ice on it, and try not to chew on it.”

Dean grumbles at Sam, but his eyes twinkle with good humor.  He says something about getting an ice pack while Sam and Castiel ‘do their thing’, and leaves the room.

When they’re alone, Sam turns a more serious expression on Castiel.  “I’d really like to examine your wing.  I one-hundred percent believe that Dean isn’t going to hurt you or anything, but I haven’t seen you as much as I’d like since you checked yourself out of the hospital.”

Grimacing at the censure in Sam’s words, Castiel shuffles back toward the padded table and leans against it.  He’s stronger every day, but still tires easily and his back aches with the strain of carrying a wing that doesn’t move quite right.  “I’ve already got more medical bills than I think I’ll ever be able to pay.  I don’t really want to add to them.”

Sam frowns and tilts his head in confusion.  “But your medical bills have been covered.”

Castiel’s head jerks up and he blinks at Sam.  “What?”

“Yeah, Dean set up a donation page for your expenses.  The owners of Purgatory paid half of them outright.”  Sam steps closer and holds out his hand in question, only reaching out to touch Castiel’s wing when he gets a nod of permission.  “And the rest was covered by people who were there, or heard your story and wanted to help the hero who stopped a terrorist.”

"I'm no hero," Castiel grumbles.  

The look Sam gives him says he doesn't agree with Castiel's statement at all, but he doesn't comment.  Instead he examines Castiel's wing, asking him questions about pain levels and testing its range of movement.  

Despite how awful Dean's massage was, Castiel is able to move his wing more freely and with less pain than earlier in the day.  After Sam is done, he continues to flex it, watching his feathers shift as Sam expounds on how pleased he is with Castiel's progress.

"I'd still like to see you officially tomorrow," Sam says.  "But we can leave this off the books if you want, and I'll just update your chart that I've approved you to go without the brace."

Castiel looks up at Sam, surprised by his offer.  "Really?"

Sam shrugs.  "Well yeah.  You're moving around ok without it.  And you can always wear it for part of the day if you feel strained-"

"No." Castiel cuts him off with a wave.  "I mean the appointment.  You're ok with examining me for free?"

"I got into medicine to help people," Sam says with a smile.  "The paycheck is just a bonus."

One brother a doctor more interested in helping people than getting paid, and the other brother patiently chipping through Castiel's stubborn attitude to guide him to an impossible recovery.  And both humans who work with supernatural beings without a hint of prejudice or fear.  These Winchesters are good men, and Castiel wonders if it's just dumb luck that he fell into their orbit, or if divine guidance put them in his path.  Even when he was a celestial being, he couldn't always recognize the difference between fate and chance.

"Thank you, Sam."  And he means it for more than just the free exam.  He's still not sure how he's going to live without the power of flight, but in this moment he's grateful that he'll have the chance to try.

"Anytime, Cas."  Sam claps him on the shoulder.  His solemn eyes say he understands what Castiel didn't say out loud.

The moment is broken by Dean's return.  His eyes smile at them from over the top of the ice pack he's holding to his mouth.  It muffles his voice when he speaks.  "So what did I miss?"

"I cleared him to stop using the sling," Sam says.  "And he's off the hook for tomorrow's appointment."

"Awesome!"  Dean holds up his free hand to Castiel expectantly.

Castiel eyes Dean's palm and thinks there's no way God would torture him with the presence of a full grown man who still high-fives unironically.  Then again, his fellow earthbound angels think his black feathers are a sign of some kind of evil taint, so if they're right then such a punishment could be completely plausible.

Either way, he smacks Dean's hand with his own.  Never let it be said that he can't accept a cosmic joke.  Especially one with such pretty eyes and a laugh that makes Castiel forget to be unhappy.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel thinks a lot about kissing Dean.  Maybe he could put it out of his mind if he didn't see Dean until their scheduled appointment the next week, but instead of dropping Castiel off at home and disappearing from his life for seven days, Dean shows up that evening with pizza and a couple DVDs.  Then again two days later with grocery bags full of ingredients for sub sandwiches and a card game designed for two.  And when he shows up again the next night with more movies, Castiel realizes he's not going to get the space he needs to stop thinking about how Dean's eyes looked just before they kissed.

Dean wanted it too.  Or at least that's the impression Castiel got at the time.  As the days go by and Dean doesn't bring it up or act like it even happened, Castiel begins to doubt his memory.

And then on his second week of therapy, Castiel stops thinking about kissing Dean.  Instead he latches onto his new favorite fantasy.  Regaining his ability to fly, specifically so he can drop Dean from the sky.  From a height that won't kill him.  Maybe.  When Dean massages his wing to break up scar tissue, Castiel's imagination increases the elevation quite a bit.

The anger gets him through the PT sessions.  It's all aimed at Dean, but the man just laughs off Castiel's grumbling and threats.

“Keep laughing, asshole,” Castiel grunts through clenched teeth as he completes what feels like the millionth lift of both his wings while they're weighted down.  The ache in his injured wing as the weakened muscles work against gravity is spreading into his shoulders and lower back and he feels like he's going to collapse under the strain.  And he still has to do presses when he's done with this torture.  “I'm going to do it.”

Dean's laugh borders on _delighted,_ and Castiel adds ten more feet to his fantasy.  “If you still want to when you're in the sky again, you know how to find me.”

Castiel lowers both wings, letting them droop.  The sandbag-like weights that Dean drapes over them for these exercises slide free and drop to the floor.  He turns to glare over his shoulder at the man.  He resolutely ignores the way his heart skips a beat when he meets green eyes that sparkle with amusement.  “I doubt the hospital will let me drag you out of here. But I'll find a way.”

The threat rolls right off Dean's back, and his grin brightens.  “You're right.  I guess you'll have to come by my place tonight so you know where I live and can murder me properly when you're ready.”

Castiel hates him so much.

He still shows up at Dean's house for dinner later though.  

***

Dean does his best to avoid thinking about kissing Castiel.  It's almost an impossible task, though.  Especially since he's been going way above and beyond the role of physical therapist by showing up at Castiel's apartment with food and games and movies.  

Every time he walks up the stairs to Castiel's dumpy little apartment he scolds himself for his lack of professionalism.  But then Castiel is opening the door to Dean, glaring at him with his usual lack of enthusiasm for company before wordlessly stepping back to let him in, and Dean tells himself instead that he's giving the angel more than just physical recovery.  Castiel is alone, and Dean knows how important friends and family are during this kind of ordeal.

And fuck him if that annoyed squint isn't goddamn adorable.  Although Dean thinks Castiel is even better looking when he smiles, which shouldn't really be possible, but somehow is.  

Then there's the fact that Castiel rarely wears more than a pair of loose cut-off shorts when he's not out in public.  The clothes he wears to the hospital gym, long pants and the open-backed shirts that angels favor to accommodate their wings, are hardly a relief because he strips down to shorts again for his workouts.   _And_ gets sweaty.  And Dean has to stand so close he can feel the angel’s body heat and smell the tang of his sweat.

It's distracting, to say the least.  And induces more than a few dirty dreams that Dean won't admit to on pain of death.

And he might have done something about it, but Castiel acts like absolutely nothing happened between them.  He's beginning to think maybe he imagined the way Castiel's eyes turned smokey, and he'd leaned up on his toes until they were close enough that Dean could smell the peanut butter on his breath.

Dean wouldn't mind taking their relationship farther, but he can and will keep those thoughts to himself unless Castiel gives him some kind of sign that he's interested.  Castiel isn't the first patient he's been attracted to, and Dean can deal with the stray wistful thought.  

Inviting Castiel to his house is probably not the best way to deal with his burgeoning crush, but he doesn't regret it.  And it becomes a common occurrence to have the angel over for dinner several times a week.

Castiel is currently perched on a stool at the island in Dean's kitchen, typical dark cloud of dissatisfaction over his head, but looking slightly less grumpy as he watches Dean chop vegetables for salad.  Every so often he'll snag a small piece that rolls away from the cutting board, crunching absently as he explains his work.

"I would rather sell my work directly than find employment somewhere that doesn't vet their clientele." Castiel's fingers are blink-and-you'll-miss-it fast as he darts practically under Dean's knife for a large slice of cucumber.  He pops it in his mouth and some of the deep frown lines around his eyes soften.

"Dude!"  Dean points the knife at Castiel.  "How about not getting a finger cut off while I'm making your salad, alright?"

One of Castiel's rare smiles lights up his eyes, even though it barely touches the rest of his features.  "You're not making it for both of us?  Finally listening to Sam about healthy eating practices?"

"Hard not to when the kid is always harping about it." Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his knife back to the board to finish dicing the cucumber.  "And I like salad.  Just not as much as you health freaks."

"You're a medical professional, Dean.  Shouldn't that automatically make you a health freak?"

Since he doesn't have a good comeback that wouldn’t out all his friends and colleagues who break their own rules in so many ways that would totally undermine their authority, Dean just shoves a piece of cucumber in his mouth and ignores Castiel's question.  He speaks as he chews.  "So you'd rather live in that tiny apartment making magic charms for white witches than make bank working for the big companies?"

"It's big enough."

"You can't even spread your wings in there, Cas."

"That's what the balcony is for," Castiel counters.  "And besides, I like my neighbors."

Dean pauses, and pins Castiel with a skeptical look.  "Yeah?  What're their names?"

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it.  His scowl is proof Dean won that little verbal sparring match.  But Castiel isn't the type to give up, despite the depression that he suffers over his current disability.  He gestures around the kitchen which has high ceilings and is probably as big as Castiel's whole apartment.  "Not everyone needs so much space."

"Maybe not," Dean concedes.  He sets aside his knife and scoops up the cucumber to add to the bowl of veggies he's putting together for the salad.  "But I'll bet you'd love being able to stretch your wings whenever you want without having to go outside."

Something wistful passes behind Castiel's eyes, but it's quickly gone.  "It doesn't matter.  I can't afford something larger at the moment."

Not for the first, or even the hundredth time, Dean wonders why Castiel is living on his own instead of with the other angels.  But he won't ask.  After several months of friendship, he's learned that the other angels are a touchy subject.  So he lets the curiosity pass and takes the opening Castiel left him for something else.  "Well maybe you could if you advertised better.  Got yourself a fancy website."

"I don't know how to do that," Castiel huffs.

"My buddy Charlie is awesome at that kind of stuff.  I could get you her contact info.  And she would work with you on payments if you tell her I sent you her way."

Castiel’s long, blank stare is one Dean has seen over and over since he first visited him in the hospital.  He can almost hear the gears turning behind Castiel's pretty blue eyes, and he wishes he could know even a sliver of the thoughts going on in his head.  Dean has been expecting Castiel to tell him to fuck off for months, but it hasn't happened yet.

He hopes it means that Cas likes him.  Which is a silly thought since Castiel is in Dean's house, about to eat Dean's cooking (spaghetti with meat sauce and cheddar melted on top, because he's got to counteract the salad), and about to sit on Dean's couch to watch tv.  At the very least, that should make them friends, right?

After a long moment of silence Castiel's eyes drop to the counter top.  “I'd like that.  Thank you.”

Dean grins, and he's sure it's a little bit dopey because it's fueled by a sudden and intense rush of affection for the grumpy angel.  “Awesome, I'll get you her card before you leave tonight.”

Castiel nods, but doesn't look up right away.  His mask of grumpy dissatisfaction is back, but Dean thinks it's a little softer around the edges.  And he changes the subject to give Castiel something easier to think about.  They discuss what they're going to watch until Dean is finished cooking, and then head to the living room to eat instead of using the table.

After they're done eating, Dean gets up to deposit the dirty dishes in the sink.  When he comes back, he catches Castiel fidgeting, his wings rustling.  The angel goes still as soon as Dean returns, and his face closes off, the annoyance Dean saw muted.  He stares hard at the tv, as if the commercial for a riding lawn mower is fascinating rather than annoying as fuck.

He's holding himself so deliberately still that Dean knows he's incredibly uncomfortable.  And Dean thinks he knows why.  The question is whether he should say anything.  Despite the months of acquaintance, he's not sure Castiel trusts him enough.

But he looks so damn miserable.  And it goes completely against Dean's nature to ignore someone who needs his help.  

He takes a deep breath, and hopes he's not making the wrong decision.  "Why so twitchy, Cas?"

Castiel shoots him a look, then goes back to drilling a hole in the tv with his stare.  "I'm not."

Dean rolls his eyes, and plops down next to Castiel on the couch.  The movement rocks the couch slightly, and both of Castiel's wings twitch where they're draped over the back of it before the angel can hide his reaction.  He resists the urge to reach out and flick his fingers against the feathers.  No need to antagonize the guy when he's trying to help him.

Not too much, anyway.  "Oh yeah?  So your wings don't itch like a bastard, huh?"

Castiel shrugs, and keeps his eyes averted from Dean.  "They're fine."

They're _not_ fine.  

When Dean first met Castiel in the hospital it had been hard to look at anything besides the sling and the bandages, but Dean remembers how glossy Castiel's feathers were.  He'd been almost able to see his reflection in the pitch black feathers.  They were such a pure shade of black that no matter the type of lightning there'd been no undertones of other colors.  No brown like his hair, or blue like his eyes.  Just empty black like the night sky if it didn't twinkle with stars.  And light reflected off them the same way it does off Baby's paint job.

Now they're dull and ashy.  The barbs don't quite lie smooth, giving the feathers a fuzzy look.  The feathers look brittle and fragile.  Even the newest patch that's grown in over his scars are starting to turn pale from lack of grooming.

At first Dean thought Castiel wasn't taking care of them due to his pain and exhaustion.  But he's healed enough now that Dean knows that's not the case anymore.  He imagines it would be difficult for Castiel to groom them himself, but he could reach most of his feathers.  Only the areas closest to his back would show neglect.  But even to Dean's untrained eyes it's obvious Castiel isn't doing any grooming at all.

"Cas," he says gently.  "If you don't take care of your feathers, you'll never be able to fly."

It's the wrong thing to say, and he realizes it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.  Castiel surges up from the couch, wings flared aggressively, and is halfway across the room before Dean can even blink.  He's about to call out for him to wait, but Castiel stops in the center of the room and spins around to face Dean.

Eyes almost glowing with rage, Castiel snarls at him.  "It doesn't matter!  I'm never going to fly again anyway!"

"Cas-"

"No!  Stop, Dean.  Just stop."  Castiel's feathers poof out, and even with one wing sagging a few inches lower than the other, he looks damn intimidating.  His face contorts into something that’s half rage, half despair.  His whole body seethes with energy, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths.  And then it all drains out of him, shoulders and wings sagging, chin sinking toward his chest.  His voice is barely audible when he speaks again.  “It’s not going to happen, so just… just stop.”

There’s several moments of silence while Dean tries to decide how best to react to Castiel’s outburst.  It’s not uncommon for his patients to come to the conclusion that they’re never going to recover, and it’s useless to even try.  Most of them just need to vent their frustration, and then he can calmly talk to them.  But Castiel is more fragile than most of them though.  He doesn’t know why, but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that he doesn’t live with his clan.  

Eventually he’s going to ask Castiel about that, but not right now.

“Don’t give up, Cas,” he says softly.  “I know it’s hard, but-”

Castiel’s wings flare again, the good one spreading out almost a foot further than the damaged one.  “No you don’t, Dean.  You don’t know how hard this is at all.”

Alright, that’s enough of that.  Dean has been patient because Castiel has needed him to be, but now the kid gloves are coming off.  

Rolling his eyes, Dean leans forward and starts untying his right shoe.  He removes it, then the sock, glancing up to see Castiel watching him with a confused frown, that deepens when Dean’s foot is revealed.  Then he grabs the bottom hem of his pants - loose sweats because his profession allows him to dress like a gym rat - and pulls it up over his knee.  He scratches under the compression sock, then leans back on the couch and gestures at the prosthetic that starts just above his knee.

“I kinda do get it, Cas.”

***

Wings sagging, Castiel stares at Dean’s leg, his _fake_  leg.  It’s… beautiful.  Instead of the skin-toned piece of plastic or carbon fiber that he would have expected - if he’d expected a prosthetic at all - it’s made of delicate silvered filigree that doesn’t look strong enough to hold its shape, much less Dean’s weight.  The toes, ankle, and knee all have intricate clockwork gears, and the end of Dean’s thigh is in a solid cup that looks padded, and has patterns etched into the material.

“Pretty, huh?  Made by fairies as a thank you gift from a client.” Dean rotates the ankle, showing that it has almost the same range of motion of a real joint.  The gears are completely silent.  “Can’t wiggle my toes, but it’s got a lot more range of motion than the first fake leg I started out with.”

Castiel looks up from Dean’s prosthetic, and meets shining green eyes.  There’s a tightness around them despite Dean’s smile.  It draws Castiel closer, and he sits back down on the couch.  “What happened?”

Dean sighs, and his smile dims when he looks down at his leg.  He massages his thigh with his thumb, tracing the edge of the compression sock.  “A building fell on top of me.”

“What?” Castiel stares at Dean, but Dean doesn’t look back at him.

“I was a firefighter,” Dean explains.  The edge of his mouth ticks up in a wry smile.  “EMT trained, which made going back to school to be a physical therapist much easier than it could have been.”  He raps his knuckles on the cup above the knee joint and glances up at Castiel.  “Anyway, I was clearing a burning building, and part of it collapsed on me before I could get out.  I was cut off from any help, and about to be roasted.  Chopped myself free with my own axe.”

The blood drains out of Castiel’s head so fast that his vision doubles.  His mind conjures up blurred images of a smoke filled room, the walls lined with flames.  He sees Dean trying to pull free of the debris trapping him, then reaching for his axe…

Without realizing what he’s doing, he reaches out and lays his fingers on Dean’s thigh.  The muscle feels thick and strong despite ending before it should.  “You don’t even limp,” he whispers.

And he knows that because he’s been watching.  Dean is beauty in a world that appears dull and colorless since Castiel’s wing was destroyed.

“The fancy prosthetic helps,” Dean replies.  “But it took a long time to get to a point where I could even stand on it.  And yeah, it was a struggle.  I lost my leg, my career.”  He sighs and leans back against the couch cushions.  The tightness around his eyes spreads to his lips.  He looks sad.  “My whole life.”

“Dean…”

“I know it sounds trite, Cas.  But it gets better.”

The anger that has been fueling Castiel for the last few months tries to flare up, but it splutters out.  In its place, hopelessness slides through his veins, chilling him.  His vision blurs again, but this time it’s because his eyes are flooding with tears.  “I miss the sky.”

Warm hands slide over Castiel’s shoulders and pull him close.  It’s not until his face is buried against Dean’s chest that Castiel realizes he’s crying.  Sobs shake his body, and a low keening rises up in his throat and he can’t keep it behind his teeth.  Dean is whispering nonsense in his ear, but Castiel latches onto his voice.  It’s been a constant for him in the last few months, in a way his family hasn’t been for years.

His wings hang heavy against his back.  The injured wing is mostly healed, but it’s unwieldy, and numb in the places where it doesn’t ache.  Its range of motion increases with every week, but he recognizes the signs of nerve damage.

And it _itches._   God, it itches so badly.  

“I can’t groom them by myself,” he squeezes out between hitching breaths.  

Dean’s lips are soft where they move against his temple.  “Do you want me to help you?”

Wing grooming is an intimate act.  Unlike those of birds, angel feathers are full of nerves.  Generally only family and lovers participate in the act of grooming.  But Dean’s already had his hands all over Castiel’s wings.  Sometimes the touch is painful, but it’s always intended to be healing.

If he could choose anyone to do it, he would choose Dean.  “Yes.”

"Tell me what I need to do."

After Castiel haltingly explains the process, Dean kicks off his other shoe, then grabs a chair from the dining table and puts it in the middle of the living room where he'll have enough space to work.  Castiel straddles it backwards and crosses his arms over the chair back.  The tv is a low hum, but he barely notices it because he's completely focused on Dean moving around behind him.

"Ready?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods, mouth too dry to speak.  

When Dean's fingers press against his oil glands Castiel bites back a moan.  They're tender from neglect, but the slight ache is also pleasurable.

And then Dean's fingers start working through his feathers, and Castiel's muscles turn to Jello.  His head is too heavy to support, so he lets it sink down until his forehead is resting on his crossed forearms.  The gentleness with which Dean treats each feather as he coats it with oil feels like a caress, almost reverent in each slow stroke.

Dean is working on the flight feathers of Castiel's bad wing when he speaks just loud enough to be heard over the tv.  "Hey, Cas?"

Castiel can't manage more than a questioning hum.

"Um, I was just, uh... wondering..." He pauses to clear his throat, then continues a little more firmly.  "How come your feathers are black instead of white?"

It's a question that would have had Castiel bristling with offense before his injury, but not only does that distant anger seem silly in retrospect, he's far too relaxed to drum up any annoyance.  Dean's not an angel, so he wouldn't understand the significance.  

"I don't know," he admits.  "I was born with black feathers, and God has been silent in response to my prayers about them."

"So it's not common?"

Castiel rolls his head back and forth on his arms.  "No.  I'm the only earthbound angel with black wings."

Dean scoffs lightly.  "That can't be true."   His hands move to Castiel's crippled wing, and he's even more careful in his touch.  It’s a world of difference from the massages he gives after PT sessions, although those have become less painful as the scar tissue is broken up and replaced with healthy skin and muscle.

Castiel is quiet for a long time.  Until Dean has finished half the wing, so if Castiel's next admission makes him stop, he'll at least have finished the areas Castiel can't reach himself.   "There’s one other angel with black wings.  Lucifer."

Dean's hands go still, and Castiel waits for the inevitable rejection.  His shoulders tense, and his feathers shift in agitation.  But instead of an outburst of horror and disgust, Dean pets Castiel's feathers down with both palms.  "I'll bet you get a lot of shit for that."

The reaction is so far from what Castiel was expecting that his head pops up from his arms and he cranes to stare at Dean over his shoulder.  "You're not disgusted now that you know?"

Dean's eyes sparkle with humor, and he continues grooming Castiel's wing.  "So you're a black sheep.  So what?  It doesn't mean you're not a good guy, Cas."

"But I'm tainted," Castiel protests.

"Or you're not, and you're just different," Dean counters airily.  "Different is not synonymous with tainted, dude.”

“It is if you’re an angel.”

“Yeah, well news flash.  I’m not.”

The hands stroking his feathers stop moving, and then disappear altogether.  Dean comes around where Castiel can see him without straining his neck and kneels down in front of his good wing.  Now that he knows what to look for, the movement isn’t as graceful as it would be for someone with two fully functional legs.  The fairies crafted a beautiful prosthetic for him, but it’s still not the same as the real thing.

He reaches around to swipe up more oil from Castiel’s glands, making him shiver.  And then he starts grooming the underside of Castiel’s wing.  He says nothing, and his expression is thoughtful.  Castiel can’t look away from him.  When Dean moves to finish the bad wing, Castiel follows him with his eyes.

If Dean rejects him, Castiel doesn’t want to miss a moment of watching him.  He’s taken their time together for granted up until now.  But now that he might lose Dean, he realizes that he doesn’t want to.  He wants to cling to Dean, and beg him not to judge Castiel harshly.

He wants Dean to keep bugging him to eat healthy and to show up unannounced at his apartment with card games and DVDs.  He wants Dean to let him make dinner for them someday, and to show Dean that his efforts aren’t wasted on Castiel.

He wants to fly again.  But it won’t mean much if Dean isn’t there to see.

Finally Dean finishes Castiel’s wings.  The itchiness is gone, and when Castiel flexes them the feathers slide together smoothly.  Only the lingering mixture of aches and numbness in his injured wing remind him that he’s tethered to the earth.

Dean wipes his hands on a towel, while surveying his work.  He gives a slight nod of approval, and then meets Castiel’s gaze with green eyes that shine with determination.

“You know what I think, Cas?”

Castiel braces himself for Dean’s inevitable, and understandable rejection.  The grooming was his last act of kindness, and he’s going to ask Castiel to leave and never come back.  

Dean stands up on his knees, putting most of his weight on the good one, and leans in close.  He has just enough height that he’s eye level with Castiel.  He smiles, and it’s sweet and charming, and makes Castiel’s heart and feathers flutter.  

“I think your wings are gorgeous.”

And then he closes the space between them, reaching up to cup Castiel’s neck and guiding him in for a kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

A split second before their lips touch Dean thinks that he might be pushing some professional boundaries, but then Castiel’s plush lips are moving under his, and he’s not thinking much of anything anymore.  Which is completely untrue, his brain is going a mile a minute plotting out how to get more physical contact with the angel, because if just kissing him is going to be this awesome, he’s not sure he can handle the rest, but he’s willing to give it a go.

And thank god, Castiel seems to be on board.  Dean may have initiated the kiss, but when Castiel’s fingers thread through his hair and grip him tight, Dean knows that he is just along for the ride.  And he’s perfectly fine with that.

Just like he’s perfectly fine with parting his lips for Castiel’s tongue, and he’s perfectly fine with Castiel scrambling off the chair and pushing Dean onto his back on the floor.  He’s perfectly fine with having Castiel straddle his hips - Dean moans at accidental friction, and then whines when Castiel doesn’t increase the pressure right away - and he’s perfectly fine with feeling caged by the angel’s body.  

Yep.  Perfectly fine.  

Except that somehow lying flat sends just enough blood to his upstairs brain that a few responsible synapses remind him that Castiel is still his patient.  They nearly spark out completely when Castiel’s hands shove up under Dean’s shirt at the same time Castiel’s gorgeous _wicked_  mouth starts trailing towards Dean’s ear, but alas, they’re still functioning enough to work Dean’s mouth for something other than an epic makeout session.

“Cas,” he gasps, even as his hands explore Castiel’s thighs and ass - _mmm firm -_  “buddy, this _ah!_ ”  

Castiel’s teeth nip at his earlobe again, making Dean simultaneously want to squirm away and also bare his neck for more.  “What, Dean?”

The fucker sounds pretty calm and collected, which is all kinds of not fair.  So Dean slides his hands up further, and buries his fingers in the soft downy feathers at the base of Castiel’s wings.  The whining huff against his ear means he hit paydirt.  “This probably isn’t ethical,” he manages to gasp out before Castiel’s mouth resumes its exploration of his ear and the sensitive areas behind it.  “We’re _unh…_ ” he loses his train of thought when Castiel’s fingers pluck at one of his nipples. “Fuck that-that’s good, Cas.”

Castiel pinches Dean’s nipple, sending a delicious twinge of almost pain through him, and he bucks up.  His erection brushes against Castiel’s and he really hates that his brain is still insisting he have A Talk About Ethics now, but dammit he doesn’t want to fuck up a good thing by _not_  talking about it.  So even as he rolls his hips up in search of more friction, he forces more words past tingling lips.  “Cas, you’re still my patient.”

A low rumble rises up from Castiel’s chest and fuck that’s sexy.  All of Castiel is sexy.  It’s completely unfair that Dean can’t just kick off his pants and spread his legs for the angel.

Yet.

Castiel’s mouth stops what it’s doing, which Dean _hates_  until he realizes that Castiel is just stopping so he can pull off Dean’s shirt.  He tosses it to the side, and pins Dean with a dark, lust filled stare.  His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are pinker than ever, swollen from kissing, and his teeth flash white behind them in a mischievous grin.  “Well then,” he says in a bassy rumble.  “I guess you’re fired.”

The brain cells that have already been chanting _fuck yes_ in response to the kissing and the manhandling now roar _FUCK YES,_ and completely drown out the last holdouts in the far corners of Dean’s mind.  Without the a professional relationship, it can now just be a _relationship_.  

But first.  More kissing.  He let’s go of Castiel’s feathers with one hand and reaches up for a handful of silky brown hair instead, and pulls him down for a kiss.  It’s open mouthed, and wet, and hot as fuck because Castiel’s tongue is like magic.  And it’s a while before either of them come up for air again, but when their lips part, Dean can’t suppress a cocky grin.  “You can’t fire me, I quit.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but his lips turn up in a rare smile.  “Shut up.  Get naked.”

It’s an order Dean is more than willing to obey, and he goes about doing so despite the fact that Castiel stays crouched over him, making it difficult to wriggle out of his pants and underwear.  Dean’s not going to complain, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to be snarky either.  “You’re hot when you’re bossy, Cas.  But I only take orders from my boyfriend.”

It was meant to be a joke, but Castiel goes still above him.  His wings pull in tight against his shoulders, and his eyes widen.  “You… you have a boyfriend?”

Since his neurons are still firing out of sync, Dean’s heart takes over.  He cups Castiel’s cheek, rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip.  “Yeah, Cas,” he says softly.  “If you’ll have me.”

It takes a moment for what he said to sink in.  Castiel’s eyes flick back and forth as he searches Dean’s.  For meaning or for truth, Dean isn’t sure.  But he knows exactly when Castiel gets it because a slow smile spreads across his features.  It’s like watching the sun come out, and Dean might be blinded by its radiance if he doesn’t look away, but he can’t.  He’s seen plenty of Castiel’s smiles - the tiny ones that only touch his eyes, and the sardonic ones that are sharper than his words, and the playful ones when he’s deliberately trying to push Dean’s buttons.  But this one is new.  This one is elation and wonder and acceptance.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

And then like magic, they’re kissing again.  Dean finishes removing his clothing, with Castiel’s help.  Then they work together to strip Castiel down to nothing as well.  They pause to look at each other.  

Dean has seen Castiel in nothing but loose shorts, but seeing him in his full nude glory for the first time is an experience he will treasure for a long, long time.  He relaxes back on the floor and spreads his arms wide, letting Castiel look his fill.  His dick twitches when Castiel’s stare settles on it, and the angel licks his lips, eyes hungry.  

And then Castiel’s eyes lift to Dean’s and there’s no more slow and sensual.  Castiel is on him again.  Exploring Dean’s chest and stomach with hands and mouth, and moving even lower.  The heat of his lips and tongue against Dean’s dick is like hellfire, but he’s definitely pulling Dean closer to heaven with every kiss and lick and stroke.  

“I am going to ride this cock.” Castiel’s words are slurred because his lips are also occupied by the head of Dean’s dick.  “This time.”

Dean’s full body shiver at the promise that eventually Castiel is going to fuck him too makes Castiel laugh.  And Dean can’t even be embarrassed by it.  He’s eager, he’s _ready._

And apparently, while he wasn’t looking, Castiel was fingering himself open.  Because he follows his promise with action, straddling Dean’s hips and guiding Dean’s dick to his oil slick hole.  As he sinks down, Dean realizes that Castiel used his own wing oil to lube himself up and “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” he moans when Castiel is seated fully on his lap.  He pushes himself up into a sitting position and wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist.  Feathers tickle his arms, and he slides his hands up into them.

Castiel’s head falls back on his shoulders and he makes the most filthy noises as Dean pets the feathers on his back until he finds the oil glands.  They’re leaking slowly, and Dean massages them gently.  Castiel starts wiggling in his lap, not quite able to fuck himself in this position, especially with Dean’s hands in his feathers.  

With one hand, Dean pats at Castiel’s thigh, guiding it around his waist instead of straddling his hips.  And when Castiel shifts both legs, he sinks down further and they both moan.  They can’t do more than grind together in this position, but Dean thinks it can’t get any more perfect.

He reaches for Castiel’s back again, and pets through as many feathers as he can reach while Castiel writhes in his lap, slowly driving them both closer to climax.  They’re silky smooth and hot from Castiel’s body heat.  And sensitive if the noises Castiel is making are any indication.  

Castiel winds both arms and both wings around Dean and moves faster and faster.  The glands at the base of his wings are still dripping, and Dean smears his fingers through it, then reaches down to play with Castiel’s rim, feeling the way it’s stretched tight around his dick.  And that, combined with the friction of Dean’s belly against his cock is enough to push Castiel over the edge, because he tosses his head back with a wordless shout and paints Dean’s chest and belly with his come.

And then Castiel is shoving Dean onto his back again, and with a look of fierce determination he starts really riding Dean’s dick.  His wings spread aggressively and his voice is a low growl.  “Fill me up, Dean.  I want you to mark me up on the inside.  Come on, Dean, come for me.”

How the fuck could he ever disobey an order like that?  Especially from his _boyfriend_?

He let’s out a low howl of his own as his body locks up and Castiel roughly rides him through wave after wave of his climax.  And when it’s over and Castiel collapses on top of him, Dean hugs him tight until their breathing begins to calm down

xxx

"Y'know if you wanna just cuddle, I've got a perfectly good bed."  The teasing words are softened by the kiss Dean presses against Castiel's sweaty hair.  "It's way better for our backs, and there's space for your wings."

Castiel smiles against Dean's chest.  Ever the caretaker.

Moving to the bed is a good idea, but for the first time since before he went to Purgatory he feels like his old self.  Better even.  His wings are comfortable and pain free.  His muscles are deliciously relaxed.  And Dean makes an excellent body pillow.  He was a wonderful mattress too, but Castiel had slid down to cuddle against his side to make it easier to catch his breath.

"Not just yet."

Dean hums his agreement.  He traces idle designs on the arm Castiel has draped over his chest for a moment before reaching up.  He strokes a knuckle over the tiny feathers of the wrist joint of the wing Castiel is keeping them warm with.  "For what it's worth, I really do think the black wings are awesome."

Surprisingly, those words are worth quite a bit to Castiel.  "Thank you, Dean."

They both fall silent again, only the tv the source of any noise.  Long enough that Castiel's hip is starting to protest his position on the floor.  He imagines Dean is uncomfortable too, but his arm stays tight around Castiel's shoulders and he continues to stroke what he can reach of Castiel's feathers.

"In Heaven," Castiel says just loud enough to be heard over the pizza commercial currently playing on the tv, "my wings were every color of the rainbow."

Dean's fingers pause, but just for a second.  He strokes his palm over the edge of Castiel's wings.  "That's badass."

Castiel snorts.  "I went from every color to no colors at all."

"Dude, that's not true," Dean protests.  "White reflects all colors of light, but black absorbs all colors of light.  Maybe you're special because you absorb everything mortality has to offer instead of reflecting it."

Castiel blinks, and then lifts his head to look at Dean.  "That's... kind of ridiculous, Dean."

"Oh yeah?"  Dean smirks at him, and doesn't back down. "So how come you're living among the mortals instead of hiding in your cozy compounds with all the other angels?  Seems to me you're living it up more than they are."

"I'm not the only angel to leave the compounds."

"How many angels would hang out in a club like Purgatory?"

Castiel tries to imagine any of his brethren in the dark club, but he can't.  Well, maybe Balthazar, but he'd prefer richly decadent parties in fashionable condos to dark and grimy dance clubs frequented by humans, demons, vampires, ghouls and the like.  He wouldn't want his pristine wings to get smudged.

That's not a concern for Castiel, although he thinks he would have visited the club anyway.  The place pumped with life, like a monstrous heart.  Castiel had been fascinated.

"None," he answers with a wry smile.

"But you did."  Dean wraps both arms around him and squeezes him tight.  "I know your wing got fucked up, but I'm glad you were there.  You saved a lot of lives, Cas."

"They better make the most of it," Castiel grumbles, but there's no real heat behind the words.

Dean chuckles.  "I hope they do."  He makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat.  "You know what we should do tonight?"

"Each other."  When Dean cranes his head up from the floor and gives Castiel look that's half amused, and half incredulous, Castiel shrugs and smiles at him.  "What?  Don't you want to do it again?"

"Is that on the table?" Dean asks a little uncertainly.  

It's an understandable reaction; the sex was unexpected for Castiel too.  He's spent the last several months refusing to acknowledge that their relationship is anything but professional.  But the truth is, they're friends.  Dean snuck past Castiel's defenses and made himself at home in Castiel's heart.  The tentative conversation about becoming boyfriends instead of friends probably needs to be revisited outside of the heat of sex, but they have time for that later.  Castiel is definitely up for more sex any time though.

"Table, bed, couch," Castiel says with another shrug.  "We can make a list so we don't forget anywhere.  I'd like to add the back seat of your car, but I'm not sure how we'll manage it."  He flutters his wings.  "It's a big car, but space is still an issue."

Dean's head drops back to the floor with a thud, and he laughs up at the ceiling for a moment before he sighs and grins at Castiel.  "I'm willing to figure out the logistics if you are, but that's not actually what I had in mind for tonight."  When Castiel pouts at him, Dean pinches his bottom lip.  "Don't give me that face, we can still have sex later if you want."

"I want," Castiel says, words distorted by Dean's fingers.

"Insatiable bastard."  Dean snickers lightly and releases Castiel's lip.  "Ok but before that, what do you think about getting drinks at Purgatory?"

Castiel rears up, bracing himself up on an arm, and squints down at Dean in confusion.  "What?  Why?"

Now that he's no longer pinned on one side by Castiel's weight, Dean folds both hands under his head and shrugs.  "It's one of my favorite hangouts, and I think it would be fun to go together."

"There’s more to it than that if you'd rather go to Purgatory than fuck me again."

Dean laughs brightly.  "Yeah, you got me there.  I think it would be good for you to go back."

"What, so I can face my trauma?"  Castiel scowls.  "You're a physical therapist, Dean, not a shrink.  And I'm not..." he looks away, chewing at his bottom lip.  He's still terrified of a world without the ability to fly, but he no longer wishes for death.  "I’m glad to be alive."

A warm hand cups his face and he rolls his face into it, inhaling the scent of Dean and sex and the musk of his own wings.  Dean's voice is soft as his touch.  "I'm glad to hear that, Cas."

Castiel finally meets Dean's eyes and gets caught be the affection there.  He smiles into Dean's palm, and then bites it lightly before speaking against the skin.  "Then, what?  You just want to go dancing?"

Dean shrugs.  "Yeah.  Like a date."

It suddenly sounds like the best idea in the world.  Aside from more sex, but even angels need a little recovery time.  "Alright, let's go."

***

Purgatory is exactly like he remembers it.  Upon entering, he's struck by the heated scent of too many bodies in an enclosed space.  Sweat and pheromones and arousal blend together with the haze from hidden smoke machines, cigarettes, and the sweetness of Mary Jane.  Rhythm heavy music pumps from man-height speakers, and his heartbeat speeds up to match the tempo.  And there are people - creatures and humans alike - everywhere.  Dancing, drinking, and socializing in quieter sections of the club.

It's so full of _life._

After his hand is stamped at the entrance, he follows Dean towards the bar, but his feet slow to a stop part way there.  He watches the crowded dance floor.  Lit only by flashing lights strategically placed throughout the club, bodies move to the same rhythm, making waves in the ocean of living creatures.  If he concentrates, he can focus on individuals.  People dance in pairs, and groups, and even alone.  Every face his eyes trace across is happy, euphoric even.

"Hey, you ok?"

Castiel jumps when Dean's voice comes from right next to his ear.  He turns to look up at the human, and he grins.  "I want to dance."

"No drinks first?"

"No." Castiel grabs Dean's wrist and tugs him toward the dance floor.

He weaves through the moving bodies, wings tucked in tight to his shoulders, Dean trailing behind, hand clasped tight with Castiel's so they don't get separated.  Near the center, he stops and pulls Dean flush against him.  Dean's hands land on his hips, lining them up, and then they begin to move.  Castiel drapes his arms over Dean's shoulders and lets him take the lead.

Dancing with Dean is like having sex with clothes on.  His body flexes and shifts against Castiel's, pressing in and retreating.  His hands guide Castiel's movements, his head dipped down so their lips are close, and they're breathing the same smoky air.  

The DJ is spinning the thumping techno music live, and each song blends into the next.  Castiel loses track of time, and his focus narrows down to Dean, the crowd around them shapeless motion around them even as they bump against Castiel’s wings.  They dance until they're both sweating and gasping into each other's mouths.  His muscles are pleasantly warm and loose from exertion when Dean finally tightens his hold, gently forcing them to a stop.

Dean puts his mouth close to Castiel's ear so his shout can be heard over the music.  "Let's get a drink."

That sounds like a good idea, and Castiel nods.  This time it's Dean dragging him through the crowd, and he can't stop grinning at the human's wide shoulders as the crowd parts around him.  Like Moses parting the Red Sea.  Only much hotter.  

They squeeze their way up to the bar, but the place is busy so they have to wait a few minutes for the bartender's attention.  And that's when Castiel notices the looks he's receiving.

All around him people are staring and whispering to each other.  Most of them look away when his eyes land on them.  But he can sense the weight of their gazes when he turns back to the bar.  It makes his wings twitch nervously.

Dean notices of course and leans in close so he can be heard.  “What’s wrong?”

“People are staring at me.”

Dean looks around behind them, then turns back to Castiel.  “They probably remember the last time you were here.  Angels never come in here, and you’re also a hero you know.”

Castiel hopes the place is dark enough to hide the heat rising up in his cheeks.  “I’m no hero.”

“Save the bullshit, Cas.” Dean bumps their shoulders together to lessen the sting of his words.  “You sacrificed your own wing to save lives.  And you could have been killed.  That spells Big Damn Hero in just about anyone’s book.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, Castiel ducks his head.  He wants to say that anyone else would have done the same, but the few foggy memories of the night that have come back to him tell a different story.  People either ran or cowered, and both options made them easy targets.  He couldn’t let any more people get hurt.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to think or talk about it anymore because the bartender finally makes his way to their end of the bar.  He’s a big burly vampire with pretty blue eyes and a sweet smile that widens when he sees Dean.  “Dean! Brother, it’s good to see you!”  And then he turns to Castiel and his eyes widen in recognition.  “Castiel, right?  Man, there are a lot of people who are damned grateful to you, me included.  I’m Benny.” He holds out a hand. “And I’d be honored to shake your hand.”

Castiel glances at Dean, and encouraged by his smile, takes Benny’s large hand in his own.  The big vampire squeezes, but not too hard.  And looking into his eyes, Castiel feels the first flutter of _rightness_  in his chest over what he did.  He’s been wallowing in anger and depression for so long that he hasn’t been thinking about the people he’d saved.

“Hello, Benny.”

Benny releases him, and thankfully doesn’t give the subject of Castiel’s heroism any more discussion than an offer for any drink he’d like, on the house.  Even the fancy top shelf stuff.  Castiel settles for a beer, and laughs when Dean pouts about not getting a drink on the house too.  

Talking to Benny seems to have knocked down whatever invisible fence was keeping the other clubbers from coming closer.  The first to approach them is a young werewolf.  He’s shy, and stumbles over his words, telling Castiel about how he’d taken a bullet in the thigh just before Castiel jumped in front of him.  The terrorist’s gun had been loaded with silver bullets, and if it had hit him anywhere else vital, he wouldn’t be there that night.

He’s followed by a siren who survived the silver, but still ended up in the same hospital as Castiel because one of the bullets had lodged in its lung and had to be removed.  After the siren, is a vampire who tells a story of being frozen with fear until Castiel inspired her to start evacuating clubbers.

Story after story is told.  Most by witnesses, some by survivors.  Tears fill his eyes when he’s hugged by another young werewolf who lost her twin before Castiel stopped the shooter, but is still thankful that he was there to protect as many people as he could.

He needs a much stronger drink after that, and Dean is at his side with a tumbler of whiskey.  Going down, it doesn’t burn nearly as much as his guilt for not being able to save everyone.

“You okay?” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and kisses his temple.  

It’s more than a friend would do, but it’s exactly what Castiel needs.  And wants.  He wraps his wing around Dean, draping the joint over his shoulder.  “I wish I’d been able to save everyone.”

“You did everything you could.”

Castiel knows Dean is right, but he doubts he’ll ever feel it in his heart.  He’s been told his problem is having too much heart, but even though it hurts, that’s a flaw he’ll gladly live with.  He looks up at Dean, and feels a surge of affection for the human.  “Hey, can we get out of here?”

“Yeah, Cas.  Let’s go.”

It’s cold outside after the heat of the club, but the interior of the Impala warms quickly with their body heat once they’re inside.  After Dean backs out of his parking spot, Castiel lays a hand on his arm to get his attention.  “Can we go back to your place?” He drops his eyes, feeling shy about his request.

“I’d love to have you over for the night,” Dean says softly.  He pats Castiel’s hand on his arm, grinning when Castiel looks back up at him.  “I promised you more sex, didn’t I?”

A grin tugs at Castiel’s lips too.  “I’d like that.”

Dean turns his attention back to navigating out of the parking lot.  “And after that, I’m thinking cuddling - in the bed this time.  And breakfast in the morning.”

Castiel’s smile widens.  “I’d _really_ like that.”


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel shades his eyes from the sun with a hand cupped over his eyes and stares up at the three story tower.  It's built into the side of a small warehouse covered in white and blue geometric designs and the word FLY in big block letters.  Other than the tacky paint job, it doesn't look like much, and his eyes linger on the tower.

"You coming, Cas?"

Dean's voice pulls his attention away from the building, and Castiel drops his hand and scowls at him, wondering for the umpteenth time why he lets Dean keep talking him into things.  "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Aww, don't give me the squinty eyes."  Dean pokes Castiel between his eyebrows, then wraps an arm around his shoulders.  "We already agreed this was the best option."

Castiel rubs at the spot Dean poked, and scowls harder when he feels the wrinkle there.  "No _we_ didn't.  This was all your idea, and you nagged me into the car."

"How else were you gonna get here?  Fly?"  Dean leans in and pecks him on the lips, then winks at him.  "Of course, if you'd fly, this wouldn't be necessary."

And then he drops his arm from Castiel's shoulders and saunters away, weaving through other vehicles parked in the lot.  Castiel glares after him, stubbornly refusing to move from his spot next to the Impala.  "I _can't_ fly!" He shouts after Dean's retreating form.

"You won't know till you try!" Dean calls without looking back.

Castiel grinds his teeth and mentally drops Dean from the sky.  Over a body of water so Dean would be scared, but not horribly injured.  Okay maybe not from too high.  He wouldn't want to actually hurt him.  Just scare the shit out of him.

Of course that whole fantasy hinges on his ability to fly at all.

He briefly considers threatening Dean with no sex if he doesn't back down on this crazy idea, but Castiel would suffer from that as well.  He's become rather addicted to the pleasure he finds in Dean's body over the last six months, and giving that up is out of the question.

"Cas! Come on!"

Pulled from his brooding by Dean's shout from the building's door, Castiel sighs and finally joins him.  Dean waits patiently, and his smile isn't even smug, just fond. Like Castiel's bad temper is cute or something.

"I hate you," Castiel mumbles when he reaches Dean's side.  

"Liar."  Dean pushes open the glass door, and a rush of cold air blows over them.  

"Oh no, it's completely true," Castiel argues as he follows Dean into the air conditioned building.  It feels nice after the summer heat, especially since his wings soak up sunlight like sponges.  He flaps them lightly to encourage cool air to flow through his feathers.  "I despise you."

Dean smirks at him. "You told me just this morning that you love me."

"Yeah, so you'd suck my dick."  It was an _excellent_ blow job, and some of the tension in Castiel's shoulders eases at the pleasant memory.  

Dean laughs and pulls Castiel into a one armed hug, crushing his wings against his shoulders.  "Lie all you want, you grumpy asshole.  I know the truth."  He tips his head close and whispers his next words.  "And I love you too."

Castiel heaves an irritated sigh, but when Dean releases him and goes to the reception desk, Castiel begrudgingly smiles at his back.  He does love Dean.  More than anything.

Which is why he allows himself to be signed up for the wind tunnel.  He doesn't have to act happy about it though, so he doesn't.  The receptionist keeps flashing him nervous looks, but he ignores her and scowls at the walls, the decorative plants, the carpet, his oblivious boyfriend as Dean leads them to the locker rooms.  He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest while Dean changes into an odd looking full body suit with flaps of cloth connecting his arms and legs.

"You look like a flying squirrel," Castiel grunts when Dean is finished.  "If this is for me, why are you in that get up?"

"I'm going in with you." Dean looks up from his final zipper and grins at Castiel.  "You're not the only one who gets to have fun."

Castiel's frown morphs from grouchy to confused.  "You're afraid of heights."

"That's why I'm sticking to indoor skydiving instead of jumping out of a plane."  Dean claps him on the shoulder.  "Come on, grumpy."

Outside the locker room, they follow the signs leading to the wind tunnel.  There are already three people inside, doing flips and tricks and generally having a great time.

Something tightens inside Castiel’s chest, and his eyes prickle.  What they’re doing looks fun, but it’s tame compared to what he could do out in the open skies.  When they were fledglings, Castiel and Balthazar used to play tag among the clouds.  He’d play torpedo chicken with Anna, both of them folding their wings tight to their bodies and diving from the sky and seeing who chickened out first and spread their wings - she always won that one.

He’s flown through thunderstorms, soared on heated updrafts, glided on gentle winds.  His first kiss was in the sky with a reaper on a clear, moonless night with only the glow of the milky way to illuminate them.

His wing is completely healed, and Sam has given him the green light to attempt flying again.  But it’s still numb in some places, and it moves differently than it had before it was mangled.  With the exercises that Dean has been making him do, his flight muscles are strong, but it’s in the deliberately sculpted way of a gym rat instead of the natural strength that comes from regular use.  And after more than nine months tethered to the ground, he’s not sure he even remembers how to fly.

The group in the wind tunnel uses up their time allotment and then exit the clear walled tower.  They’re flushed with laughter and excitement, and Castiel remembers that euphoric feeling after a wild flight and a successful landing.  He yearns for it, and for the first time since Dean suggested this outing, he thinks that maybe he wants to try it.

They watch a few more groups ahead of them, and then their names are called.  Dean bounds up to the woman who seems to be in charge of the tunnel, but Castiel follows more slowly.  

“... he’s a little nervous, so I’m going to go in first.”

The woman glances at Castiel, stark curiosity coloring her features, but she doesn’t ask any questions.  She just gives Dean the go ahead, and opens the door.

Dean looks back at Castiel and he looks so excited that Castiel feels a little bad for being such a grump all day.  He’d been so wrapped up in his fears that he hadn’t considered that this was for Dean too.  They’ve been a couple for a little over six months, and they go out on date-like activities and they have a lot of fun together, but this is a new adventure.  

Looking at this as a couple’s activity instead of an act of physical therapy actually makes Castiel feel better, and he laughs as he watches Dean clumsily balance himself in the air roaring up from beneath him.  

“Do you want to join him?” The woman standing near the entrance asks him.

Castiel cautiously stretches out his wings, and then brings them back in against his back.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I want to try it.”

He feels the wind on his face first as he approaches the opening, and even though the air smells a little bit like the oil that lubricates the giant fans below the floor, it brings back the sense memory of flight.  His heart starts to pound, with excitement more than fear, and he falls forward into the gusting air.  

It’s instinct to snap his wings open, and he lets out a startled shout when he starts to rise quickly up towards the ceiling.  But he adjusts their angle, and he drops back down to where he’s even with Dean.  It’s difficult to keep his balance because the wind is blowing straight up instead of at an angle like a true updraft would, and he bobs and rocks as he tries to figure out the best angle and extension of his wings to hold him in place.

When he finally manages to even himself out, Dean cheers at him.  And Castiel laughs.  He loses his balance, but finds it again quickly.  His wings feel strange and achey, but it feels so good to have the wind in his feathers after so long.  He laughs again, slightly hysterically this time.  And he can feel the warning tingle of tears behind his eyelids, but he doesn’t care.

He’s _flying._   Or close enough that it feels like flying.

When Dean reaches his hands out, Castiel takes them.  And just to be a shit he angles his wings to jerk them both upwards, grinning at Dean’s surprised yelp.  And then he drops them back down just as quickly, laughing more when Dean’s grip tightens painfully around Castiel’s fingers.

“Enjoying yourself, asshole?” Dean calls over the roar of the wind and the fans.

“Very much!” Castiel yells back.  

They spend the next twenty minutes playing around in the tunnel as much as they can with Castiel’s wingspan taking up most of the room.  It holds three full grown humans comfortably, but with Castiel and Dean together, it’s a bit of a squeeze.  But spreading his wings out all the way would be disastrous, so they manage just fine.  

By the time they exit the wind tunnel Castiel’s wings burn with the strain despite Dean’s hard work at getting him and keeping him in shape.  He’s not surprised, but he’s also not displeased.  

“How you feeling, Cas?” Dean asks as they stumble away from the wind tunnel.

Like his face is going to split in half if he smiles any wider.  “I am going to be sore in places that I forgot I had,” he answers.  “It’s awesome.”

Dean laughs and pulls him into a tight hug.  Castiel squeezes him back, wrapping his wings around them and giving them a little privacy so that they can kiss without the weight of prying eyes.  It gets heated fast though, and Dean pulls away with a gasp.

“If you want to jump my bones, we should get out of here,” Dean pants through his grin.  

“I like the way you think, Dean.”  Castiel starts shoving Dean in the direction of the locker room so Dean can change back into his street clothes.  “Come on, we need hurry, or I’m going to try and defile you before you can get me to the car.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, and he rushes to get changed and lets Castiel drag him out to the Impala.  But when Castiel sees the open sky, he changes his mind about where he wants to go.  He stops Dean with a hand in his shoulder.  "Wait, Dean.  I don't want to go home just yet."

Home is Dean's house, even though it's not official yet.  Castiel's little apartment is mostly empty these days.  But that's not what Castiel has in mind either.

"We can fuck in the Impala, but you know we’ll both end up with sore backs," Dean says with a wicked grin.  "Plus, this place is all kinds of public."

"No, that's not... Can we go somewhere?  I want to show you something."

Sensing the change in Castiel's mood, Dean sobers.  "Sure, Cas.  We can go wherever you want."

Once they're in the car Dean follows Castiel’s directions, which lead them out of town.  He doesn’t question where they’re going, and they’re mostly quiet for the drive.  It doesn’t take long to reach their destination.

“Angel town, huh?” Dean turns from the little forest that they’re parked outside of and looks at Castiel with a quirked eyebrow.  “Taking me to meet the family?  I didn’t realize we were so serious already.”

He’s teasing, but Castiel isn’t when he responds.  “I’d like for us to be that serious.”

Dean’s other eyebrow jumps up to join its partner.  “Really?”

Castiel smiles.  “Yes, but we can talk about that later.  And I didn’t bring you here to meet my family.”

They get out of the car, and Castiel leads Dean through the trees.  The angels do live nearby, but he avoids the inhabited areas.  It’s easy because they prefer to live up in the canopy instead of near the ground.  The trip is short, because Castiel’s destination is near where they parked.  

Castiel's tree hums with happiness before he even reaches it.  The sensation buries itself under his skin, and welcomes him home.  It's like an invisible cat doing figure eights around his ankles, only he feels it in the entirety of his soul.  The oak tree comes into sight a few seconds later, and Castiel's footsteps slow.  

The tree looks healthy, the leaves vivid green against the sky.  They whisper softly against each other in the light breeze, and it's cool under their shade.  

When he's close enough he presses his palm against the rough bark, and drops his chin to his chest.  His grace sings to him, quieter than when he was young.  Someday it will be completely absorbed into the earth and he'll no longer feel its presence.  But elder angels say they can hear and feel their grace long into the twilight of their mortal lives.

Dry leaves crackle under Dean's feet, reminding Castiel of his presence.  "Is this place special to you, Cas?"

Smiling, Castiel reaches blindly for Dean's hand and pushes it up to the trunk next to his own.  His grace recognizes Castiel's feelings for the newcomer and its song picks up in tempo.

"Whoa!"  Dean's hand spasms under Castiel's, but doesn't pull away.  "What is that?"

Castiel lifts his head and smiles at Dean's wide eyed wonder.  He wasn't sure Dean would feel Castiel's grace, and he's thrilled that he senses it.  "That's me," he says softly.  "Well, it was part of me before I came to Earth.  It's my grace.  It's what I gave up to experience mortality."

Dean's jaw hangs loose, and he puts his other hand on the tree too.  His head tilts up and he stares up into the branches.  "You gave this up?  Why?"

"Mortality is worth the sacrifice."  His voice breaks on the last word.  He had been willing to give up his mortal life because of a lost wing.  But if he'd died all those months ago, he wouldn't have met Dean.  

As if reading his mind, Dean looks at him with a crooked grin.  "Are you glad you stuck around?"

Castiel turns away from his oak and pulls Dean into his arms, and wrapping his wings around his shoulders.  "Yes.  Thank you."

Dean tilts his head, an action Castiel thinks Dean learned from him.  "For what?"

"For nagging me into living again.  For putting up with my bullshit."  He kisses Dean softly, with all the love in his heart.  He leans back and smiles.  "And for the absolutely amazing blow job this morning."

Dean snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes.  "Wow, Cas.  You're such a romantic."

"Well you know me.  I'm an asshole."  Castiel loves the way Dean's eyes crinkle around the edges when he makes him laugh.  They're the same green as the leaves on the oak tree cradling his grace while providing them with shade in the summer heat.

"Yeah, you are," Dean admits.  "I kind of love that about you, though."

His fond smile is back, making Castiel feel like he can like he can do anything Dean asks.  And Dean wants him to have faith in himself, to do his best, to never stop trying to find his way back to the sky.

Castiel thinks today is a good day to give it a shot.  "Can you climb a tree, Dean?"

The question confuses Dean, but he plays along.  "It's been a few decades, but I think I could still do it."  He taps his prosthetic foot against Castiel's ankle.  "This might slow me down a bit, but as long as I don't get it stuck between the branches, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Good.  Follow me."

Castiel releases Dean and circles around the tree to where a branch hangs low enough for him to jump up and grasp.  He pulls himself onto the branch, then continues to climb.  He doesn't look back to see if Dean is following him because he can hear him.  Plus his grace practically vibrates with curiosity about the strange creature climbing through its branches, and Castiel can feel his progress.

He doesn't climb all the way to the top like he used to do when he was a fledgling.  He's too heavy for the highest branches to hold his weight now.  Plus if this little adventure fails, he doesn't want to fall too far.  It would be silly to break a limb so soon after healing from another injury.  So when he's about halfway up the trunk, he finds the sturdiest branch and walks out as far towards the end as feels safe.

The smaller branches around him move, giving his wings space.  And Castiel smiles because his grace, weakened from over thirty years of being tethered to the earth, still understands his needs and pushes itself to serve him.  Little acts like that will drain it sooner, which makes his smile a little melancholy, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.

"Cas, what are we doing?"

The branch under Castiel's feet shifts, and he looks back to see Dean holding onto it to balance himself on a lower one.  Dean is very deliberately not looking down, and Castiel feels a tiny bit guilty for luring him up so high since he's afraid of heights.  "You're just going to watch," Castiel says.  "I'll be jumping out of the tree and hoping for the best."

Dean's eyes widen. "You're going to what now?"

Castiel grins at him.  "I'm going to fly, Dean."

"Cas, if you can't and you fall-"

"How exactly did you think I'd fly?" Castiel cuts in with a chuckle.

Dean waves one hand around as if he's pulling ideas from the air.  "I dunno, start on the ground and jump?"

"That requires more strength than starting from up high and catching air on the way down.  It's how we start flying as fledglings."  Castiel flaps his wings, not enough to give himself any kind of lift, but to test their agility.  "Thanks to you, I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

Dean looks a little green around the gills, but he doesn't question Castiel’s methods any further.  With a grunt he pulls himself up into the branch and straddles it.  He gives Castiel a crooked grin that doesn't quite hide his concern, but his voice is firm with confidence when he speaks.  "Alright, man.  Do your thing."

Castiel smiles at him and turns away.  He takes a deep breath and sends up a silent prayer for safety.  Then he spreads his wings, and jumps.

Unlike the wind tunnel there's not an updraft to lift him, so he drives his wings down against the air.  Something twinges in his bad wing, but he ignores it and the worry that he may be undoing some of its healing.

And he flies.

He has to pull sharply to the side to avoid hitting another tree, but he manages to use the maneuver to gain more lift.  With a few more beats of his wings he's above the canopy.  Below him he can hear Dean cheering and hollering at him, and Castiel feels pressure build up inside him.  He swoops around in a small circle, and the sound of his joy can't be contained.  He laughs, and swings into a figure eight.  His muscles strain against the combined powers of gravity and centrifugal force, and he knows he'll be much more sore from this later than the exercise in the wind tunnel would have made him.

But _he's flying_ and a few strained muscles are a low price to pay for that.

In the distance he catches a glimpse of white wings, and even though he'd happily soar around above the grace forest until he falls out of the sky, he doesn't want to encounter any other angels.  And even after a few minutes of flight he can feel his stamina flagging, making falling an actual danger.  So he angles his wings to carry him back down toward the tree he'd left Dean in.  

His landing isn't as graceful as it would have been before his injury, and he’s sweaty and breathing hard, but he couldn't care less right now.  Especially when he sees Dean beaming at him from his seat against the oak's trunk.

When Dean’s elated grin slants into a smirk, Castiel can almost read his thoughts in the green depth of his eyes.  He holds up a staying hand.  “Don’t even say it, Dean.”

Somehow Dean’s smirk becomes even more wicked.  “Oh, I’m gonna say it, Cas.”

Castiel walks toward Dean, scowling down at his boyfriend.  “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m gonna totally dare.”

Castiel drops down to straddle the branch, and hooks his knees over Dean’s thighs.  “Why do you have to be an asshole about this?”

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist.  “Uh, because turnabout’s fair play, and I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine?”

With a drawn out sigh, and an eyeroll for good measure, Castiel admits defeat.  “Fine.  Say it.”

“I fuckin’ told you so!” Dean announces triumphantly.  

Castiel drops the grumpy act, and smiles.  “So you did,” he says simply before leaning in for a celebratory kiss.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Purgatory's Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272499) by [Moonlite_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlite_Knight/pseuds/Moonlite_Knight)




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